Crazy Love
by Alex the fire girl
Summary: They're crazy together, but that's what makes it great. A collection of Puck/Rachel drabbles.
1. Covered in water and crazy

**A/N: **Drabble based on this prompt by **cheapen** from an LJ drabble meme: "She's covered in water and crazy, and that's the moment he realizes he's probably, definitely in love with her."

* * *

Puck was just settling in front of the television and saying silent thanks that he wasn't out in the pouring rain when his phone rang. He picked it up, aware without looking at the faceplate that it was Rachel because she'd programmed in her own special ring tone, and barely had time to say, "Hey, babe" before she was cutting him off, her voice panicked. "Noah, I need you to come to my house _now. _It's an emergency! Hurry!"

He broke seven laws getting to her house, and he didn't give a fuck about any of them(okay, so maybe he could have waited for that old lady to cross the street rather than gunning it and splashing her with water… but whatever, his girl was in trouble and it wasn't like he'd actually hit her or anything).

He didn't know when exactly it had happened, but somewhere along the line, Rachel had really started to matter. He didn't like how freaked out he was, knowing that in the five minutes it took for him to get to her, she could have been hurt. Helpless was not a good feeling. In fact, it sucked ass.

So he went over the curb and parked his truck half on her front lawn and half on the sidewalk, and barely stopped to turn off the engine before he was jumping out into the rain to see if she was, like, tied up in the house somewhere with a crazy knife-wielding Jewfro standing nearby ordering her to love him. (Even though he knew he scared the shit out of him, Puck had _nightmares _about that dude and his fixation with Rachel, okay?)

He burst in the unlocked front door, dripping a little on the clean floor, and started rushing through the house, yelling her name. He was searching the kitchen when he saw her through the window, standing out in the backyard while the rain poured down on her. She seemed to be alone, thank God.

Confused, he went to the side door and joined her in the backyard.

"What the fuck, Rach? What's wrong?"

She whirled toward his voice, her soaked hair flicking out from her face. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Noah! It's Fanny. She's out here somewhere, and I cannot convince her to get back inside."

Fanny. It took him a minute to realize she was talking about one of the damn chickens.

Puck knew Rachel couldn't get over her egging. He couldn't, either, but it was pure rage keeping him up at night, not vegan guilt over the souls of poor, innocent little chicks that would never get a chance to peep. It haunted her for months. So when his girlfriend announced that she was going to get chickens, he'd been only kind of surprised. He'd known she wanted to do something to "make reparations." He just hadn't known she'd be bat-shit crazy enough to legit buy chickens and make a home for them in her fucking backyard.

Sure, Rachel was an animal person—her sweaters and fucking annoying refusal to eat animal products made that clear enough. But these were _chickens,_ not puppies. And his girl turning into loony farmer Rachel? So not happening. That body was made for ridiculously short skirts, not overalls.

He was pretty sure he'd kill himself if she started wearing overalls.

Since he hated anything that threatened his ability to touch and stare at Rachel's bare legs, he hated the chickens a little, but Rach didn't. She was determined to provide a safe, happy life to her new birds.

Seemed like that idea was currently in the shitter, hence her "emergency."

If he didn't think that this was it, that she'd finally lost her damn mind, he would have taken a bit more time to admire the way her clothes were _pasted _down against her body. He entertained a brief fantasy of her wearing nothing but body paint, like the really hot chicks in Sports Illustrated(with her body, Rach would _totally _make the cut), then remembered he was here for a reason.

Apparently, to take her to the insane asylum, because she was standing in the rain calling for a _chicken._

Why the fuck were the hot girls all nuts? And just when he thought he'd started to get her particular brand of crazy.

"You called me here to help you find a chicken." He said the words slowly, like someone speaking to a child, and was rewarded by the quick narrowing of her eyes as she began to see what he was thinking about her. Namely, _This woman is out of her fucking mind_.

"No, Noah. I'm fairly certain I know where she is." Her gaze went to a large bush that lined the fence, and she bit her lip. "I need help apprehending her."

"Riiight. You're gettin' soaked, Rach."

"I realize that, Noah, but I can't leave her out here! She might get sick and die, and the last thing I need on my conscience is another soul."

She looked so damn sad at the memory, her liquid brown eyes all big and gorgeous, so he accepted that he was gonna get soaked, too, and probably muddy, and agreed to help.

Ten minutes later he had mud stains on his pants, leaves stuck to his clinging wet shirt, and two scratches from that damn bush on his forearms. But Rachel was closing the door to the chicken coop, and she came back to him with her hair plastered down and that mega-watt smile on her face that he just can't resist.

She's covered in water and crazy, and that's the moment he realizes he's probably, definitely in love with her.

"Thank you for coming and helping me, Noah," she said, wrapping her arms around him in a thank you hug. Their wet shirts squished together as her chest pressed against his, and despite the fact that he'd just been hit with reality like a two-by-four to the head, he was immediately turned on.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, his long fingers stroking the wet skin of her cheeks. He was acutely aware of each drop of water that ran down that face. "'S all right. Worth it."

She beamed up at him and started tugging him back toward the house, happy that he wasn't angry with her, and that she wouldn't have any more blood on her hands. "You're right, though."

He went inside after her, closing the door with a thud. "'Bout what?"

"We're soaked, and if we aren't careful we could get sick. Staying in these clothes would be irresponsible, don't you think?" The smile she sent him over her shoulder before she left, headed for her bedroom, made his heart race.

"Absolutely." Fuck, yeah. No wonder he loved this girl.


	2. Bunny Cookies

**A/N: **This is for Casey, who asked for me to post other Puckleberry drabbles here(thanks for your review!). This was the first one I wrote(first Glee anything I've tried), based on a bunny cookie cutter prompt by **the_idiotgirl**. Hope you like it!

* * *

"Here, Noah. Since you obviously cannot be trusted to mix the batter—" This had resulted in the mysterious disappearance of nearly a third of the first batch of her famous sugar cookie dough— "you'll be in charge of cutting the cookies out." Rachel gave her boyfriend what she hoped was a stern look, since hitting him with a wooden spoon when he was sneaking bites earlier hadn't worked; in fact, he'd seemed to like it. "Each ball should make exactly thirty-four. No sampling."

Noah stared at the little silver cookie cutter she was holding out to him and wondered if this was punishment for something. Sure, he'd agreed to come to her house of his own free will, but she'd mentioned that her dads would be gone all day and asked if he would help her with a project, and his mind sure as shit hadn't jumped to baking.

The afternoon had looked promising when she opened the front door in one of her cute little skirts that made her petite legs look a mile long(he still hadn't figured that shit out, but it didn't stop him from trying) and a tank top that left her arms and shoulders bare to his touch.

Then she'd explained her plans. And nearly made him cry with disappointment. Because baking, with someone who was anal about having every ingredient being perfect down to the last grain of salt? So not cohesive with sex. "You've got to be joking, babe."

"What?"

"A fucking rabbit?"

Frowning at his language, she pushed the cookie cutter into his hand and put her hands on her hips. "Noah! They're Easter bunnies."

"We're Jewish, so unless I missed the notice on Jewish Easter bunnies—or Passover bunnies or whatever—"

"Just because it doesn't follow the customary stories about our religion doesn't mean that we aren't allowed to enjoy colorful bunny cookies," she stated, pouting in a way that made him feel like he'd just ripped up her newest sheet music or something.

He sighed. He was _so_ whipped by this girl. "Fine."

"Besides, it's the only one I haven't used yet from the holiday pack."

As she turned back to the mixing bowl to make the next batch, Puck rolled his eyes toward the sky even as he picked up the girly little cookie cutter and started to stamp out shapes.

If anyone from school ever heard about this, he'd need to bring out the nunchucks to remind them all how badass he was. And if she thought he wasn't going to demand payment when this was all done, she had another thing coming(and hell no, cookies would not be enough).

Rachel added a few more ingredients to her bowl and mixed, then came back—actually _came back_—to check on him. "You're doing wonderfully, Noah."

Because he didn't know what would come out if he spoke, he just nodded his head. Jesus Christ. Like he needed a supervisor to use a fucking cookie cutter?

His chick was crazy.

Then she gave him one of her bright, honest smiles, her brown eyes sparkling in the way they only did when she was happy with him. Okay, so she was crazy. But she was also crazy hot, and that pretty much made up for it.


	3. Fishing

**A/N: **This was in response to **cheapen**'s prompt of "Puck and Rachel go fishing. Rachel refuses to eat the fish. Puck is not amused."

* * *

Rachel loved Noah. He was talented and funny and had arms a girl would throw herself in front of a bus to be held by, and he could actually be quite charming(read—_not _badass, which she found sweet) when he wanted to be.

She reminded herself of all this as she stood in her cute pink rain boots at the edge of the lake and washed her hands in the cool water, all the while pointedly ignoring whatever Noah was doing to the two fish he'd caught earlier and placed to await their deaths in a white bucket of water.

Her mind flashed to the moments when each of those poor fish had been reeled in, their shiny bodies writhing at the end of her boyfriend's line(she'd agreed to come, but not to have a pole of her own). When the second and far larger one had been pulled in, she swore she'd actually _heard _its cry for help, a mental appeal to the only one with the power to save him. Or her. She'd never learned how to determine the gender of a fish, and in any case, she'd been studiously trying _not _to look that closely.

Because unfortunately for little Flounder there, this one and only beacon of hope was in love. There was no other explanation for why she would ever have agreed to go on a fishing trip, of all things. It was torture. Really, this reasonably _should _have changed that whole 'loving him' issue. It was a miracle that it hadn't.

For one thing, she wasn't allowed to speak above a whisper. Noah was apparently very serious about his fishing and claimed it was some sort of fundamental rule, but she leaned toward the belief that he'd made it up. Either way, she mostly stayed quiet—except when her guilt overwhelmed her and she started humming songs from _The Little Mermaid_ in the hope that any nearby fish would hear and get the hint. _It's a trap! You don't want that worm. Please, escape while you can!_

Fishing was also _boring_. They'd been on the lake for hours, they couldn't carry on a conversation, and the only real action was when a fish took the bait, which made her feel almost sick with dreadful anticipation.

Yes, she'd secretly hoped each time that the fish would outsmart her boyfriend. It happened once. Don't judge.

"Come on, Rach, it's almost time to eat!" Noah called from behind her, where he'd been murdering fish and building a fire to char their remains over.

She turned cautiously and was relieved that she couldn't see much of the brutality from where she stood. She squished her way onto dry land and looked around expectantly. "Okay. Where's the rest of the food, Noah? In the cooler?"

"What do you mean, rest of the food? This is lunch, Rach. Fresh caught fish done over the fire is the fucking _best_."

She stared at him in horror, praying that he was joking… but that wasn't Noah's playing a prank face. "I can't eat that."

He stared back, just as horrified. "Why the fuck not?"

"It's fish."

"I know that. I caught that shit, remember?"

He sounded so proud that she hated to burst his bubble, but she would give up her next solo in glee before she'd eat a fish. "I could hardly forget…"

"This is pretty much the only thing I can cook, Rachel, and it's awesome."

"You know my feelings about eating living creatures, Noah."

"They won't be alive when you eat them. I cut off their heads and cleaned 'em out so there's no eyes staring at you as you eat—that shit's fucked up—and they're almost done to goddamn perfection."

"Stop, please." She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I don't need the details of your butchery." She eyed his hands, certain that he must still have guts or blood or something on them and equally certain they wouldn't be on _her _anytime soon, then cast a desperate glance at his truck. "You really didn't bring any other food?"

"Just some beer. Babe. _Fishing trip_. I thought it was obvious we'd eat fish."

She didn't bother pointing out that, contrary to what he and Finn seemed to think, beer was not food. "No, Noah. _Vegan_. I thought it was obvious I _wouldn't_."

He scowled, completely at a loss and getting annoyed. Fishing was his relaxing time. He should have known better than to bring a chick along to fuck it up. "Isn't that just for fuzzy stuff, like cows and… I dunno, bunnies and shit? Do fish count?"

She put her hands on her small hips and glared. "Of course they count!"

"You sure? 'Cause one of my cousins says she's a vegan, but I know I've seen her tackling a plate of fish and chips…"

"_They count, Noah,_" she growled. "And furthermore, your cousin is clearly not an actual vegan. No animals, no animal products. You _know _that!"

"I didn't think today counted. You don't get a free pass for a fishing trip?"

"A free pass?" she repeated shrilly. "From my conscience?"

He let out a loud breath, still watching the roasting fish for the perfect moment to take it off the fire. "Then why the fuck did you come with me if you knew you wouldn't have anything to eat?"

"I thought you would be considerate enough to pack something I _could _eat. Clearly I was wrong. We should leave, Noah. Now."

"Fuck that noise, I'm gonna eat my fish. Then we'll go home."

Rachel watched him walk toward the fire, practically cooing to those… those _corpses, _and felt her mouth fall open. This was a moment for the history books.

She was actually speechless.

She didn't consider herself an annoying vegan. She understood that others did not share her enthusiasm for the life of animals and didn't complain when they ate meat in front of her. She tried not to inconvenience people with her eating habits. But this was too much.

Huffing in anger, she stomped to the truck and climbed into the passenger's side to wait. She fumed even more when it became clear that he wasn't hurrying any because of her discomfort or hunger—he sat down to enjoy the fish, was fanatical about putting out the fire, washed his hands in the lake, even rearranged his stupid tackle box before lugging it to the bed of the truck.

He climbed in and had the audacity to smile at her before starting the engine. "Ready to go?"

She looked pointedly out the window, promising herself that he would pay for this.

He put in her favorite CD to play on the ride home. She still didn't let him put his hand on her leg. He stopped at her favorite takeout place to pick up a cruelty-free meal before taking her home. She said goodbye when she got out and walked up to the door, but still didn't kiss him.

But when he showed up on her doorstep an hour later with a pretty glass bowl, two goldfish, and a little container of fish food, she stepped aside and let him come in, and they both knew he was forgiven.

"Noah?" she called quietly as he started up to her bedroom with her new pets.

"Yeah?"

"Never take me fishing again."

He smiled back at her. "Deal, babe."


	4. Packing adventures

**A/N: **This is for **metaphor**, who reminded me that I was trying to slowly put my drabble responses up here! Thank you! This one was in response to: "Puck 'helps' Rachel pack for a vacation. Maybe it's one he doesn't really want her to go on," prompted by the awesome **smc**_**27**.

* * *

Puck walked into the bedroom and stopped short, glaring at the suitcase that was sprawled across the bed. It reminded him that in a few hours, Rachel would be heading to the private plane bound for Las Vegas, fucking Sin City, without him.

Damn bachelorette parties. He didn't get why Rach's theatre friend was making such a big deal out of this wedding; anyone who spent five minutes with Sandy and Tom knew the marriage would last three months, tops. Puck was sort of hoping for six weeks; that had been his guess, and the pot for the betting pool had been five hundred dollars, the last he heard.

What? If the marriage was gonna end up in the shitter anyway, someone might as well get some good from it.

He also didn't get why the fuck they had to go to Vegas. Like New York didn't have male strippers and day spas? The hell else were they planning to do out there?

Whatever the plans were, he didn't like it. Ten chicks alone in Vegas? It spelled trouble.

It wasn't that he didn't trust her. Rach was probably the one woman he'd ever slept with who he seriously _did _trust. It was just that he knew how hot his girl was, and he knew how horny single guys acted when they were in Vegas and saw hot girls, and he didn't like the way those two facts kept adding up to a reason for justifiable homicide.

Not when he was across the fucking country, well out of killing range.

He walked over to the bed and unzipped the suitcase, curiously peeking inside. She had meticulously packed that shit over the last two days and if she came home and found him snooping through her bag she'd probably flip the fuck out, but whatever. He just wanted to see what she was taking.

He completely ignored the toiletries except to note that she was taking enough junk to clean and dress up a third world country(seriously, he saw her every morning before she'd showered, put on makeup, or brushed her teeth and she was goddamn gorgeous. Why did she have all this crap?). But then he got to the clothes, and he scowled.

Tiny skirts. She'd packed three of her tiny skirts, including _his_ fucking favorite little black one, plus two dresses that he knew clung to her petite body like skin. Some of her skimpiest tops were also nestled carefully in the bag, with matching lingerie sets.

What. The. Fuck. If no one was going to be seeing her underwear, then why did she need to take the matching sets that she _knew _made him lose his freaking mind?

And why was she taking the black fuck-me heels that made her almost as tall as a normal person?

"No," he muttered to himself, pulling the shoes out of the bag. "Hell no."

Out came the little skirts, the revealing tops, the seductive underwear, the shoes that screamed sex. He carried them all to their shared closet and dumped them into the corner, behind the hamper. Then he started repacking.

The problem with trying to make someone like Rachel less appealing was that she looked good in everything. Half the shit she wore in high school might as well have been potato sacks, and he'd still wanted her. And her taste had improved since then.

Who'd have thought he would ever _miss _the animal sweaters and bright blue pantsuits?

But at least jeans covered up her legs, and T-shirts were less inviting than cleavage-revealing tank tops. He packed one of her looser, longer dresses that was still dressy enough for a club, and added the plainest, most sensible underwear that he could find in her lingerie drawer(the thought of any other guy seeing them, even a glimpse by accident, still made him clench his teeth). Her boring black heels went in next.

Smiling to himself, he closed the suitcase and zipped it up. He was helping her, really. Saving her from what probably would have been a constant line of douche bags trying to get into her pants.'

And Rachel Berry's pants? Only accessible to one guy, and that was him.

The bag was waiting in the hallway when Rachel came home half an hour later. She looked at it in surprise as she walked over to Noah and planted a quick kiss on his lips. "You brought out my suitcase."

He smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "Just being helpful."

Wordlessly, she raised an eyebrow. He'd made no secret of his displeasure at being left behind. "How would you feel if I told you that the plans changed?"

"What do you mean?"

Her eyes sparkled as she smiled up at him. "Well, Sandy and Tom decided they'd rather not spend the weekend apart, so this is now a bachelor _and _bachelorette celebration."

"You mean…"

Grinning, she lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I'm ready to go. How quickly can you pack a bag?"

He laughed, suddenly much more excited about the upcoming weekend. "Give me ten minutes to throw some shit together." He was already halfway to the bedroom when he remembered the pile hidden in the closet. He turned around, ignoring her confused glance, and grabbed the bag in the hall.

"Noah, that's mine," Rachel called after him.

"Gimme ten minutes, babe." Because if he was there with her, sensible and boring were _not_ gonna cut it.


	5. Move in with me?

**A/N: **this was the fill for **sara345**'s prompt:

_"You could always leave it here"  
"You want me to leave my toothbrush here?"  
"Well, you know- that, and maybe a bunch of other stuff as well"_

Hope you guys enjoy!

* * *

The idea comes out of nowhere, but once it's in his mind, it won't leave. It's kind of like her that way.

They've been "officially" dating for about eight months, but fuck that noise. She's been his since high school and everyone important knows it. Besides, they've been making out for over a year(they went official because she refused to put out unless she had the girlfriend title, and Puck was willing to trade that—or, you know, his soul—to get into her pants), and she's at his place practically all the time anyway. It's not like there's anything holding her to her own apartment.

Here's the thing. She hates her roommate. Like seriously, _hates _the girl. She started out kind of cool, but in the past six months she's changed, and there's a fucked up chick war going on in that place now. Amy messes with Rachel's music, sets her raw meat in the fridge next to the carefully segregated vegan products, and burns the incense Rachel hates(he doesn't blame her; it smells like feet), and when Rachel's home she purposely waits until Amy goes to sleep to start her vocal training. He's pretty sure that Rach is about a step away from murdering her in her sleep.

He's also a little worried their neighbors are gonna lose their shit and just torch the place one day while his girl's inside. He's actually driven by on the way to work, just to be sure.

So they can't sleep at her place, because she gets all irritated and starts ranting about their latest battle and yeah, he's a little scared he'll get caught in the middle of their combined crazy.

But he _hates _when she pulls that "I haven't stayed at my place in a few days, I should really go there tonight" bullshit.

What? He likes getting laid on a regular basis, and besides, he's gotten used to having her next to him in bed. She's soft and he's kind of a cuddler. No big deal.

So when she walks out of his bathroom with a toothbrush in hand and heads for the bag of her shit that's pretty much always on his dresser, except for when she takes it home to get new clothes, he knows she's going to be at her place for at least a little while today, and he thinks it's stupid. He kind of hates that damn bag.

Before his brain catches up with his mouth, he says, "You could always leave it here."

Rachel stops and raises an eyebrow at him. She hasn't gotten dressed yet, so all she's wearing is one of his T-shirts and maybe a pair of lace panties, and she's the most beautiful thing he's seen since… well, since she woke up next to him in nothing more than his sheets. "You want me to leave my toothbrush here?" she asks.

"Well, you know—that and maybe a bunch of other stuff."

She's smart. She should get what he's asking.

She doesn't. She walks over to her bag and places the toothbrush in its little plastic carrying case. "That's all right, Noah. If I start leaving things here I'm bound to forget and start wondering if that witch stole them just to spite me."

Shit. If he wants this to happen, he's gonna have to be more blunt. That thought shouldn't be intimidating to him—it's how he's lived his whole life—but he suddenly feels nervous. "Not if _all _your shit's here. Like, all the time."

She pauses again and turns slowly to face him. He can't read her right now, and he wishes he'd just ignored her fucking bag and gone on with his day. "You want me to leave all of my things here. Permanently." She sounds disbelieving.

Well, fuck. Has she never thought about this before?

He shrugs, going for nonchalant. Inside, he's miserable. This relationship thing? A shitload of trouble. "'S just a thought. There's plenty of room."

She comes over to where he's sitting on the bed and stands between his legs, looking down at him with her big owl eyes. "Noah, are you suggesting I move in with you?"

"Yeah, guess I am."

"You don't think living with me will drive you crazy?"

He smiles. "Haven't scared me away yet, Berry."

Now he knows that face. There's a smile threatening to break through. "You have a point."

"So. What do you think?"

She squeals, climbs onto his lap, and presses a kiss to his lips. "I think we should go retrieve my belongings. Today. Now. I'll deal with my landlord and everything later."

He thinks that he should be freaked out by how quickly this is happening. He isn't. Actually, he's kind of excited.


	6. Kissing Booth

**A/N: **Another fill in response to one of **sara345**'s prompts: "Fundraiser for Glee. The girls decide to run a kissing booth and are taking it in turns to sit at it. When Rachel's turn comes Puck is pretty pissed at the number of boys that 'crawl out of the woodwork' wanting to kiss her." Enjoy!

* * *

The football field was filled with booths selling stuff and students milling around. It was Friday, and the second half of the day had been reserved for this club fundraiser. It was a little crazy, but Puck figured it was better than being in class.

Or, you know, going through the effort to _not _be in class.

The only problem was the whole fundraising part. He hadn't gotten roped into doing anything himself—he'd done his good deed with his special brownies, thanks—but the girls in glee had decided the club needed money for costumes and should have a booth to get it.

Normally he was down with anything where other people did the work and he reaped the rewards, but this time? Not so much.

'Cause the girls had decided to run a _kissing _booth. And Schue had agreed.

And _Figgins _had agreed.

Shit, did no one else see how much they were asking for disaster here? Teenage boys plus low level prostitution was just… _bad_, man.

He wasn't worried about Santana and Brittany. They'd probably kissed most of the guys in school already anyway; this would be like a fucking stroll down memory lane for them.

Mercedes was actually kind of excited about this; she could take care of herself if anything happened.

Quinn was single and on the warpath after (another) Finn screw up, so she was probably looking at this whole thing as revenge.

And Tina… well, Figgins asked Schue not to include Tina in the booth because dude still thought she was a vampire princess or some shit. Whatever, Tina was with Artie and they'd both looked kind of relieved.

But Rachel… he didn't like the thought of her doing it. It made his stomach hurt like he'd had a bad burrito or something. And shut up, it wasn't like that—they were sort-of friends now, and putting Berry in a kissing booth at an event where icy drinks were being sold was just asking for humiliation. She was a weird, emotional chick. She might actually get hurt.

He would have been concerned if any of the other chicks were at risk, too. _He would have_.

Puck saw her walking away from a food booth eating an apple—who the hell bought _plain apples_ at fairs? Fuck, who _sold _plain apples at fairs?—and walked over to join her. "Hi."

"Hi, Noah. Isn't this great? Oh, did you see the fresh fruit at the renaissance club's booth? My idea."

Of fucking course. Sometimes he still wondered why they were even kind-of friends. "Yeah, looks great."

She didn't notice that he'd rolled his eyes when he said it. "I saw Quinn a little while ago. She said our booth's doing well."

He glanced over to glee's booth. Santana was the one running things there now, and she had the kind of line you'd expect from someone who was both hot enough that you'd want to kiss her(even if you already had before) and intimidating enough that you'd fear what might happen if you didn't support her cause. Rachel's shift at the booth was after Santana's, and she was the last girl in the rotation.

There was no special reason why he knew that. "So you're actually going to do this?"

"Of course I am. It's for the good of glee club. Why wouldn't I?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't seem like your kind of thing, I guess."

She lifted her nose and primly smoothed back her hair, unsure of how to take that comment. Was he implying that she was too stuffy to take part in a fun, harmless activity, or that selling her kisses like a street peddler was beneath her? "To be honest, I was a little uncertain about the idea when Brittany suggested it, but Santana defended it quite well during the deliberation process." She paused before reluctantly admitting, "And the other girls outvoted me."

Puck had to laugh at that; _there _was the Berry he'd come to know.

"But it's working. I mean, sure, selling kisses for a dollar makes me feel a little like a cheap trollop—obviously we're worth far more than that—but Santana probably had a point when she said that making this a success while charging my proposed fifty dollars a person might require something more than a peck on the lips. When she mentioned private rooms and cops, I had no choice but to relent."

He choked on… nothing. Air. Since when was air dangerous?

Apparently since he started imagining Santana and Rachel discussing private sex rooms and 'more.' Jesus, did she even get how many dudes would jump at a chance to get 'more'?

This was a fucking bad idea. He had to try to shut this shit down quick.

"It's cool that you agreed to this," he lied. "You know, doin' it Santana's way."

She frowned in confusion. "Santana's way?"

"You know—taking turns, letting everyone see what the line looks like for each of you."

"It's a fundraiser, Noah, not a _contest."_ But her voice already sounded uncertain, insecurity and her competitive nature flaring up.

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Of… of course I am."

He lifted an eyebrow. That was it, just lifted one eyebrow.

And apparently put the fear of the whole male student body in her. Her eyes grew wide and just a little terrified and yeah, Puck felt like a bit of an ass for even bringing it up. "Oh, God, Noah! What if my shift starts and no one comes? I know my talent speaks for itself, but my track record with men has been less than stellar."

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Rachel. And hey, try not to think about how Santana's over there, watching the booth and probably counting how many guys pass through each girl's shift."

Her eyes grew bigger. "Counting?"

Okay, strike "bit of." He was an ass.

But if he was an ass who could talk this chick out of puckering up for anyone with some extra lunch money, he'd be okay with that. "You know, you don't have to do this. We probably already have enough cash for new shit to wear."

He thought she'd back down. God knew the girl was obsessed with how other people saw her.

But no. _This _had to be the time for Rachel to show she had some balls. "Of course I do. I gave my word." She threw the apple core into a trash can and straightened, smoothing her blouse, her skirt. She was basically gonna be selling herself to the guys at their school—guys who'd tossed slushies in her face and mocked her—and she hadn't even tried to dress differently today.

God help her. That big-eyed kitten on her top was _not _gonna help make sales.

"It's for glee, right? That's what matters."

"Yeah, sure. Good luck."

"Thank you," she replied seriously before striding off to the booth. He could hear her muttering, "This is for glee. This is for glee," under her breath as she went.

He watched her walk over like a miserable little soldier, sure that she was about to get blown to pieces because she just wasn't up to her damn mission, and couldn't help feeling a little bad. Maybe he should have offered to stop by the booth if things went badly. They were sort of friends now, and that was a friend-like thing to do, right? In an "if you were stung by a jellyfish I'd pee on your leg" kind of way.

So, yeah. If she was completely tanking at the booth, he'd spend a buck to kiss her. Small sacrifices and all that.

She said something to Santana, who laughed; they were actually getting along these days, which was kind of weird, but he was lookin' out for her, so who was he to talk? Then the cheerio picked up her bag and left Rachel alone at the booth.

Well, not really alone, Schue was there "supervising," but he'd allowed this whole damn mess to take place, so Puck didn't exactly trust the guy's judgment when it came to his girl.

_Girls._ The glee club chicks had sort of become his _girls_.

Fuck, he needed some sleep if he was callin' Berry his girl in his head.

There were some guys still in line who'd come for Santana, and Puck mentally winced as he waited for them to leave, waited to see how much the rejection stung Rachel. Except they didn't leave.

Why the hell weren't the fuckers leaving?

Rachel took her seat on the stool and smiled brightly at the first guy in line, and waited for him to hand the money over to Schue before she leaned forward.

Jacob appeared in line before their lips had even touched. Like, literally, he ran across the field—little creep had probably been shittin' his pants all day waiting for this moment. Puck was pretty sure he also squealed like an excited little girl, but shit, honestly? Not that surprising.

The surprise? The other fucking guys who were suddenly approaching the booth. The first guys, sure—they were already standing in line and felt like hiding the fact that they were douchebags by sticking around and kissing Rachel when they couldn't get Santana. But these new asses? They came out of nowhere. For Rachel. Kitten shirt and all.

The fuck?

Puck stood back and watched as the line progressed, and honestly it was innocent enough. She smiled and said a few words to some of them, but she kept her lips shut during the brief kisses, he could see that from where he was standing.

The weird thing, though? It still bugged him.

And he could've called who the worst offender would be the minute they announced this dumbass idea weeks ago. Fucking Jacob Ben-Israel. The kid was leering like a dirty old man at a titty bar as he approached Rachel, and as soon as their kiss was over, he ran—legit _ran_—to the back of the line to do it again.

Fists clenched, Puck waited for Schue to step in. Obviously this was not okay. Anyone could see that. Rachel looked like she was gonna puke or scream every time Jacob found his way to the front of the line again—two times, three…

Why the fuck wasn't Schue doing something about this?

When time four was about to roll around and Schue was actually off talking to the teacher managing the next booth, Puck'd had it. He walked over and grabbed Jacob by his shirt, pulling him out of line so they were face-to-face. "You're done here," he stated, trying to be calm when he really wanted to hurt someone and had a whole line of candidates at the ready.

Jacob blinked at him rapidly, hands hovering in the air. "But I'm—I'm a paying customer, Puckerman," he stuttered.

"The first time you're a paying customer. Maybe the second. By the third you're a stalker, and by the fourth you're asking my fist to meet your face."

"But—"

Puck tightened his grip, lifting Jacob a bit off the ground. "Dude, seriously? Give me a reason to hurt you. Please."

Jacob squeaked and shook his head. "No, no. I'll go."

"Good." He released him, and Jacob retreated so fast that he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell. Puck walked over to the booth, stood behind Rachel, who looked completely startled and equally grateful, and crossed his arms over his chest. "All right. I guess we've gotta do this shit."

"Um, Noah? What are you doing?" Rachel hissed.

He shrugged. If he thought he had a chance of getting away with it, he'd be taking her the hell away from this place. Since that wasn't gonna happen, he was going for the only other option. "Someone needs to guard the booth."

She smiled brightly back at him, then bit her lip and glanced up at her next kiss—a junior who wasn't looking too sure of himself all of a sudden. "Okay, then. Hi."

He hated this. Really hated it. Most of the guys didn't even do anything he could object to, but at least there were a couple. He needed the anger outlet.

"Hey, keep your hands to yourself or I break them off. And you—do you even go to this school? Get the fuck out of here."

There was a little less traffic at the booth once he was there, but Rachel didn't seem to notice. And when it was _finally_ three and they were done, she stood from her perch and turned to him with a little smile on her face before standing on her tip-toes and kissing him.

He was so startled that he barely had time to think that he was probably the hundredth guy she'd kissed in the past hour and a half.

She was blushing when she pulled back, but her shrug was calm enough. "Payment," she explained. "You were a pretty good bodyguard. Too bad you didn't think to watch the booth when any of the other girls were here."

"Yeah," he murmured, noting the sparkle in her eyes that said she might know why, "too bad 'bout that."


	7. Another night with her

**A/N: **I wrote this in response to **urkonstantine23**'s prompt, "Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you." This one has more angst than the others, but I hope you guys like it anyway!

* * *

Puck spends the night wishing that he hadn't agreed to come out to a club with Rachel and her new boyfriend, Ian. Honestly, he hates the douche bag. There's no one thing he can point to that would explain why, or he _would_, and expect Rach to ditch the guy. Because he's her best friend, and that's how that shit is supposed to go down, right?

He listens when she complains about the women he "dates"(fucks). Mostly she calls them cheap and stupid, and he gets rid of them(sure, that's why. 'Cause he _respects _Rachel's opinion).

So, yeah. He shouldn't have come out with them tonight, but he does. And because he does, he gets a front row seat of Rachel pressing up against that bastard on the dance floor, her hair all loose and shiny over her bare shoulders. He thinks she's hotter than any other girl in this joint, and he really hates that he's not the one out there with her body pressed to his.

Thing is, this "friends" idea kinda fucks with his mind. He's never done this with a girl before, much less one that he's made out with.

And those relatively innocent kisses they shared during high school? Sometimes he remembers those, and they keep him up, and hard, at night. He's had more sex dreams starring Rachel Berry than he likes to admit, even to himself.

He wants her. He's been fighting with that for a while, because they actually have a successful friendship and he doesn't want to fuck that up, but times like now, he can't deny it.

So he watches her, is unable not to. It doesn't matter that he sort of has a girlfriend—or at least a girl he's sleeping with on a regular basis—who happens to be at his side, completely oblivious to the way his eyes keep drifting back to his best friend. He sees Rachel smiling as she moves to the music, sees the way Ian's hand slides down her back to rest on the soft curve of her ass, and something inside him snaps. Just… breaks.

So he grabs the nearest drink on their table—Rachel's, and isn't that ironic?—and drains it before motioning for another. Soon he's completely drunk and completely pissed, because if fucking Ian wasn't around Rach would be laughing that he was done and helping him out to a cab. She'd probably even get in with him to make sure he got into his apartment okay, even though her place is in the opposite direction.

There's something in Rachel's eyes when he tells her he and Anna are leaving, but he's too far gone to realize that it's worry.

When he fucks Anna that night, it isn't really her that he sees beneath him. Then they're done and the brown eyes he'd been imagining become blue, the brown hair goes back to blonde, and he tells her to leave.

She curses him and hurries into her clothing before storming out, and he doesn't bother to stumble after her and lock the door. Instead, he thinks of Rachel, wonders if she and Ian are having sex right now.

Wonders who she's thinking of if they are.

Reaching for his phone, he types out a message more by feel than sight.

_Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you._

He sends it to her, the first number on his contact list, and passes out.

~/~

She shows up on his doorstep at 8 the next morning. She would have waited until later if she could, but those words keep floating around in her head, repeating like a mantra that will give her no peace. _Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you_.

Just like they had the night before when she read them the first time, the words send a shiver down her spine.

Noah had no right sending her that text. Of course he was drunk when he sent it; she knows that. He's the only person she's ever met who actually becomes more eloquent when he over-indulges.

She pounds her fist on the apartment door, her hands almost shaking with anger and nerves and something else she refuses to identify because she's pretty sure she doesn't want to know what it means. There's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as she wonders whether or not he's even home.

_Another night with her, but I'm always wanting you_.

It's not like Rachel needs the reminder that Noah has been off sleeping with someone who isn't her. She doesn't. In fact, she probably knows better than he does how many women he's had sex with during their friendship. Four years. They've been best friends for four years, since running into each other in New York during a college break. There have been a lot of women.

And it hurts. Whether or not he knows it, whether or not he means it to, it hurts.

She blames high school—the hormones, their ill fated week-long romance, the fact that they never slept together and got _that _out of their systems(she tries to ignore the persistent humming in her gut when he does something intrinsically sexy, like smirk or wink or _breathe,_ that hints that it would take a lot more than a few rounds in bed to get Noah out of her system).

If it weren't for those high school experiences looming over them, reminding them that no matter how certain they are that friendship is the best option for them, they still know how the other tastes, maybe things would be different. Normal.

Instead of the decidedly _not _normal position she's in right now, broken and sick over one text from a twenty-four year old boy-man who still hasn't learned that words have as much power as a weapon.

She pounds on the door again.

When she hears him swearing on the other side of the door, a part of her relaxes. It opens a moment later, revealing Noah standing there, squinting into the sunlight, with red eyes and pillow lines on one side of his face. He's barefoot and shirtless, but he's taken the time to pull on some pajama bottoms(she _knows _he sleeps naked).

He looks like hell.

She's pretty sure she feels worse.

"The hell, Rach? 'S fuckin' early," he grumbles, backing away from the door as if the light hurts—which, she supposes, it probably does.

"What is this, Noah?" Following him, she thrusts her cell phone, the message clear on the faceplate, into his face.

He closes the door and squints. "You mean that thing that used to be a phone before you bedazzled the fuck out of it?"

She glares at him, still holding out the phone. A monster. Her best friend is a _monster_. And half the time, he doesn't even realize it.

Noah looks back, miserable and hung over, before finally taking the phone. Then he freezes, and she knows he remembers. "Shit."

"What is this, Noah?" She wishes that she could be nonchalant, laugh it off in case it was just the alcohol talking, but she can't. Not with him, not about this.

"I—it's… I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head, no doubt regretting that he'd ever sent her that message.

She kind of regrets it, too, because now it's there, between them, something they _have _to deal with. It's astounding, how nervous this conversation makes her. Her heart is pounding and her stomach's in her throat. She gives a quick prayer that she won't vomit here in his living room. "Where's Anna?"

"Dunno. I sent her home last night."

"Why?"

"Didn't want her here."

She can barely breathe. "Why?"

_Just say it_, she thinks. _All you have to do is say it, Noah. Please._

Instead, he scuffs the carpet with a bare foot and asks, "Where's Ian?"

She sighs, disappointment flooding her. She hasn't given Ian a thought since she read the text. "His house, I suppose."

"You really like him?"

She shrugs. Her insides scream no.

"I don't."

"_Why, _Noah?"

He's uncomfortable. His body language screams it, and Rachel resigns herself to the fact that this is going nowhere. Maybe even accepts the fact that their friendship will be damaged forever.

Tears sting her eyes but she forces them back and ignores the way her heart feels like it's breaking in her chest. People have survived worse, haven't they?

He takes a deep breath and exhales, gives a shrug as pathetic as hers. "'Cause he gets you, and I hate that."

At any other time, she would smile at that, but she's still so unsure of her grounding that she just nods. Takes the time to absorb it. And bluntly asks the question they're dancing around. "Do you mean it, Noah?"

He glances down at the phone in his hand, as if he's forgotten that it's there. "Does it matter if I do?"

Lying doesn't cross her mind, even if it could help her save face. "Yes."

"Yeah, I mean it." He smiles, and it's a little sad, but hopeful, too. "Fuck, Rach. Everyone else? Lousy substitutes."

For once she can't think of anything to say, so she just smiles. And if there are tears in her eyes again, at least she knows they're nicer ones this time.

He takes that as encouragement. "So, should we give the real thing a try this time?"

"Yes, Noah. I think maybe we should."


	8. Oompa Loompas

**A/N: **This was written for **cheapen**'s prompt: "Puck is terrified of Oompa Loompas." Enjoy!

* * *

They were sitting on the couch watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory(the original version with Gene Wilder. Puck thought Johnny Depp was a badass who could do no wrong, but Rachel thought the newer version was creepy) because he refused to let her force him into watching another Streisand movie, ever. He knew he was gonna lose that battle eventually, but he was determined to hold out until he could get her to watch the Rocky movies. Or until sex became a bargaining chip. Whichever.

He liked the movie. Willy Wonka was one crazy SOB, and he liked how Rachel could push aside reality enough to accept a man getting out of bed for the first time in over 20 years and being strong enough to dance around his crappy shack of a house("It's for dramatic effect, Noah. And everyone loves a miracle story—especially when it's musical."), but launched into a speech about how children's signatures on contracts meant nothing.

What could he say, her dads were lawyers.

He also didn't mind the way she rested up against him on the couch, her body all soft and sweet and smelling good against his. Her legs were right there, bare thanks to another one of her tiny skirts, and he let one hand fall to the enticing skin, unable not to touch. He trailed the back of his hand over her thigh, enthralled as always by how soft her skin was, and couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips when she shifted just a little in her seat.

He was pretty sure she ended up closer to him than she was before. He _knew _that his hand inched lightly higher, touching just enough to make her aware. Edgy. Wanting.

Beside him, Rachel kept her eyes on the television screen, but her breathing quickened.

Hell yeah, he was a stud. He could have her writhing against him, movie forgotten, in about a minute.

But then the damn fat kid fell into the river of chocolate, and Puck knew what was coming next. His hand froze on Rachel's thigh, all thoughts of seducing his girlfriend on the couch flying out the window(okay, maybe not _all_—he was still Puck—but most).

There was no way he could sex Rachel up when they were singing in the background. To him, they were the stuff of fucking nightmares. He could handle anything else—possessed little girls spewing up pea soup, vengeful axe murderers, creepy clowns, cannibals, people who liked to hack off limbs with anything handy… fine, throw that shit at him. Those, he could handle. But not this.

Not Oompa Loompas.

~/~

Something was going on. Rachel could feel the change in Noah—in his touch, in his body language. She glanced up at him, her brown eyes curious. "Noah? Is something wrong?"

"No, babe, it's cool." But he removed his hand from her leg, which made her feel somehow colder, and wouldn't look at her. Or, she noticed, the movie.

And did he look a little like he was suddenly in pain? "Are you feeling all right? I could get you some antacids. I told you that your body would not appreciate that last hot dog, but you insisted on—"

"Rach, stop. I'm not choking on toxic hot dog bile, okay?"

She frowned. "Okay." But he wasn't okay, and she wasn't content accepting that without an explanation. "Noah, tell me what's wrong."

"You're talking at me when we're watching a movie, that's what's wrong," he snapped, clenching his jaw.

Oh God, was he _sweating_? Rachel quickly ran through a list of illnesses that included sweating as a symptom in her head. Why were men such babies when it came to admitting that they were sick? Even her fathers acted like two year-olds when they got the flu.

She was about to launch into full nurse mode when she realized that he wasn't just not watching the movie. He was avoiding watching the movie. Her eyes went to the screen and suddenly something clicked. "Noah. You aren't… afraid of the Oompa Loompas?" she asked incredulously.

"What? No! Of course not, babe, I could take those over-tanned midgets blindfolded," he scoffed quickly.

She studied him, her eyes widening. "You are! Noah, why on earth—"

"They're freaky, okay?" he interrupted. "They're _orange _with green hair! Who the hell thought up orange midgets with green hair?"

"Actually, Noah, in the original version of the book, they weren't orange. That's just in the movie version, so it was probably just a theatrical technique to—"

"That doesn't make it right! And they're always just _there_ when he calls them. They come out of fucking _nowhere_, Rach, like bugs or… or ninjas or something. Tiny orange ninjas. Who the hell even knows how many of them there are?"

She laughed, unable to help herself. When he glared at her, his hazel eyes smoldering dangerously, she forced herself to stop. Working her expression into something halfway serious—even a great actress could only do so much when her badass boyfriend was scared of Oompa Loompas—she patted his arm. "They're a persecuted people on the run, Noah. All they do is work in the factory and sing and dance."

"Don't get me started on the fucking moral lesson songs," he warned, shaking his head. "And don't try to defend them in some midget-solidarity, either. You _know _they'd chop you to bits if you broke the wrong sugar flower or some shit."

It was _so _hard not to laugh, or do something evil like start singing along with the characters that apparently terrified him so. She thought she probably deserved an award for holding it in. "No, Noah. I'm sure you're right."

He frowned and grumbled under his breath, "I bet they know all the best places to hide a body in that place…"

She didn't laugh. She controlled herself.

Two days later when Puck nearly screamed like a girl after running into an orange-dyed, green fro-ed Jacob Ben-Israel before school, however, she couldn't help herself. She dissolved into giggles until tears ran down her cheeks and she thought her sides might burst.

She'd paid her creepy ex-stalker a hundred dollars to do it. It was worth every penny.


	9. Why don't you smile?

**A/N: **I wrote this for **cheapen**'s prompt:

_"Why don't you ever smile?"_  
_"I do. Sometimes."_  
_"Why don't you ever smile when someone besides me can see it?"_

I hope you guys enjoy it!

* * *

They hadn't planned this, had never once arranged to meet at what Rachel had begun to consider their spot on the bleachers. It always just kind of happened, one of them stumbling upon the other while they were out by the field, trying to get some quiet time away from the undeniable chaos that was William McKinley High School.

She wondered about it occasionally, what kind of strange connection drew them to the same place at the same time(she wasn't sure about him, but she knew she'd never once in the last two years gone to the bleachers without seeing him there, either sitting by himself as if he were waiting for her or climbing the steps within fifteen minutes of her arrival).

So she wasn't surprised to see Puck sitting on the bleachers when she walked out into the sun during lunch, her book bag slung over one shoulder. He was lounging back, his elbows resting on the bench behind him and his legs stretched out in front, and she silently marveled over how he could manage to look so relaxed and so restless at the same time.

She climbed the few steps to reach his level and sat down next to him, her eyes automatically sweeping the field in front of them. It was empty now; the year—their senior year—was drawing to a close, so there was no reason for any team to be out practicing. "Anything new?"

It wasn't exactly the greeting that someone would expect from Rachel—at least, anyone but Puck. She'd actually adopted the greeting from him. When they'd started running into each other on the bleachers, that had been his way of asking if everything was okay. Two years ago, bullying had been an issue for her. It had stopped pretty damn quick when people realized that Puck was looking out for her, but the greeting? It was sort of their thing now.

"Not a damn thing," he replied, his tone almost bored. "You?"

She started to shake her head, then stopped and reached excitedly into her bag. "Santana finally gave me back my camera. We can look at the pictures."

He shot her a dark sideways look. "Shit… do we have to?"

"Of course we do." Undaunted by his groan, she pulled the small digital camera out and hit the viewing button. No matter what anyone else had to say, Rachel knew bringing the camera to glee last week had been one of her best ideas. The other kids in glee had become her best friends in their years together, and she didn't want to forget any of them—not their smiles, or their body language, or their mannerisms. So she'd passed around her camera, letting anyone take pictures of everyone else. Now that she finally had it back, she was excited to see what they'd captured.

The first one that popped up on the screen was of Mike and Tina making silly faces. Then came one of Sam and Artie playfully flexing their muscles, a shot of Rachel trying to escape Kurt's hands as he gave her styling tips for her hair, a picture of Santana refreshing her makeup with the help of a small compact, another of Finn trying to artfully dip Rachel in a dance move that almost had her knocked onto the ground.

Rachel chuckled as she continued to go through the pictures, holding the camera so that both she and Puck could see it—not that he was really looking, though she did see him glance over whenever a particular shot made her laugh.

She smiled when she came across a picture of Puck. He was sitting behind the actual focus of the shot, Quinn and Mercedes grinning at something, but her eyes still went straight to him. He was frowning, looking off at something not in the frame of the photo, and he looked appealingly... grumpy.

Her amusement over that faded a little as she went through more of the pictures and realized that, while he wasn't always frowning, he was never _smiling, _either.

And if he'd known that all the pictures were being taken, she could understand it; he was just enough of a pain in her ass to see the camera aimed his way and scowl just to ruin the moment(that was the kind of friendship they had, and she'd long since accepted that), but that wasn't it. In half of them he was in the background, or off to the side, unaware that he was being photographed.

She frowned a little herself as she poked his arm and asked quietly, "Why don't you ever smile?"

"I do. Sometimes. See, there." He pointed to the camera's screen before she could absentmindedly skip forward to the next picture.

When she glanced down, she giggled. It was true, Puck was smiling in the photo—a slightly wicked, completely boyish grin. Immediately, she remembered why; she'd taken the picture right after he stole her music notebook and began pulling out sheet music like some kind of untrained ape.

She let out a huff to show that she still hadn't forgotten that bit of mischief, and resumed scrolling through the pictures. Puck was right, she saw; he _did _smile sometimes, but not often. Out of all the shots he was in, he was smiling in six, and Rachel had taken every single one. Actually, when she thought about it, they'd been pretty much alone when each one had been taken.

Placing the camera in her lap, she glanced curiously at his face. "Why don't you ever smile when someone besides me can see it?"

He shifted, then shrugged. "And ruin my badass rep?"

She leaned against his shoulder, smiling. "Oh, right. Because singing and dancing with glee didn't do that the last two years, but cracking a smile every now and then… that would just be too much."

"Not everyone smiles all the time, Berry."

There was something in his tone that made her sit up straighter. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. It's nothing."

"No, tell me."

"You. You smile when you're happy, fine. That makes sense. But you also smile when you're uncomfortable, or when someone says something that hurts your feelings, or when you're not sure what people are talking about and you don't want it to show. Fuck, did no one ever tell you what smiles _mean_ in the normal world?" he asked, turning to look her straight in the eye.

"I guess not. Maybe you should enlighten me, so I can be just as stingy with happiness as you are," she shot back, confused as to how a simple question had gotten them here.

He shook his head, letting out a noise of frustration. "All of your smiles don't show happiness, that's the goddamn point."

She stared at him, bewildered and a little hurt. Why was he criticizing her? "Actually, that's not 'the goddamn point,' Noah. All I asked was why you smile around me, and judging from what you've said—and correct me, _please, _if I'm misinterpreting this—normal people smile when they're happy. Following logic, that means that you're happy around me—_obviously not now, _but when I'm not off smiling too much or for the wrong reasons or—"

"It just gives people the wrong impression sometimes, okay?" he snapped.

"What people?"

"Finn." He snapped his mouth shut as soon as he'd said the name, almost like he was mad at himself for answering her but couldn't take it back.

She blinked, more confused than ever. "Finn? When did my smile give Finn the wrong impression?" And that was absolutely the weirdest concept she'd addressed all day—including a very strange conversation she'd had in the hallway earlier with Jacob about cats and rabbits.

"The other day, when he spun you around and you guys bumped heads before he almost dropped you on your ass…"

She expected more, but that was all he seemed willing to say. "Okay, I smiled. I wasn't hurt, and we weren't performing for anyone, so his clumsiness was funny."

Remembering the way Finn had pulled her back upright, so their faces were inches apart, and smiled at her like some dopey fool, Puck made a face. "You might have been laughing at him, but it sure looked like you were—"

"What? Flirting with him?" She laughed at the mere idea of it. The 'Rachel and Finn' ship had sailed years ago, and she had no intention of ever climbing back on board. When it came right down to it, Finn was a much better friend than he'd ever been a boyfriend to her. They weren't meant for more, and she knew it. "Don't be ridiculous, Noah. That was nothing, and I'm sure that Finn knew it just as much as I did—"

"Shit, okay. You got it right, smiles mean happy. Why the hell are we talking about this?"

The sudden shift away in conversation made her head spin, but why should anything about Puck's current mood make sense now? So she resisted the urge to demand an explanation and decided to be completely honest. "Because, I need to know. Why don't you smile more?" she asked softly. "Graduation's not that far off, and you'll finally be getting out of here, leaving high school behind. You should be happy, Noah." _You deserve to be happy._

He glanced away, clearly uncomfortable. "Maybe it's not all shit I want to leave behind."

"You mean glee?" She nodded, finally thinking that she understood. "I know it'll be hard to leave that behind, and you'll probably never find a club with as much talent as we have. But we won Regionals, so at least… at least we're ending on a high note."

"I don't just mean the _club,_ Rach. I mean the people." He paused, as if reconsidering. "Well, some of the people."

She let out a laugh, letting herself hope that he included her in the list of those he would miss. "You don't actually believe we're all just going to fall out of each other's lives, do you?"

Again, he shrugged. "A while ago, I would've said hell yes and been glad about it."

"A while ago, you wouldn't have been sitting here with me discussing our facial expressions." His snort of laughter made her feel warm. "We've been through too much to just… stop talking to each other. Anyway, you're not getting rid of me that easily. I can be very stubborn when I want to be, Noah."

"Shit, you think I need you to tell me that?"

She playfully tried to hit him, but he caught her hand and held it in his for a moment, just a moment, before letting it go. Startled, Rachel let it fall onto his leg. "You're just gonna have to face it, Puckerman. You're stuck with me."

He pretended to groan, then slung an arm around her shoulder. It was casual and comfortable, and somehow felt right. "I think I can live with that."

And it might have been her imagination, but Rachel could have sworn she caught him smiling a little more often the rest of the year.


	10. Reunion

**A/N: **This was written for **pristhebest**'s prompt: _10 year-reunion of the 2012 senior class of WMHS. Jacob is married to Suzy. Mike and Tina have adorable Asian babies. Quinn's blossoming belly is proof that Artie was telling the truth. Everyone knows about each other's lives... Except for Rachel Berry's, who despite being a Broadway star is secretive as hell of her personal life, and just tied the knot, only... No one knows to whom! Santana does, but she's not telling. _Enjoy!

* * *

Seeing everyone at the ten-year high school reunion was… weird. Santana had pretty much kept in touch with her high school gang(if occasional Facebook messages and Christmas cards counted as keeping in touch), so she knew mostly what to expect. Still, actually seeing it all in front of her as she walked into the hotel ballroom was strange.

She settled in at what appeared to be the glee club table, and silently marveled at the changes in everyone as they all said hello and caught up on their lives. Her sweet, bubbly Brittany was just as happy as she always had been, though not much brighter, but Santana loved her anyway. So did Finn, who'd been her husband for almost five years.

Quinn was… huge. Seriously, she was a glowing, beautiful boat with swollen ankles, directing a few half-hearted complaints toward Artie, who apparently had been telling the truth all those years ago when he told Tina he still had the use of his penis(yeah, Santana knew about that; Tina couldn't keep a secret to save her life). It was their first kid, and it was obvious how excited they both were about it.

Tina and Mike were pretty much just adorable together. Santana couldn't help but laugh when Tina excitedly pulled out a wallet full of pictures of two chubby-faced children with gooey smiles on their faces, explaining that the boy, Kevin, was three now, and the girl, Larie, was fourteen months.

Kurt and Mercedes had come together from LA, where they'd started their own fashion line. That, Santana had definitely known about. She had a couple of their pieces in her closet back in New York.

She told them about her job at the law firm, and how she'd heard from Matt recently—he was working with children in poverty-stricken countries, and sounded like he absolutely loved it. He'd always been a big softie, so that didn't come as a surprise.

Santana wasn't surprised, either, that no one expected Puck to come. When his name came up, everyone seemed at a loss. "I talked to him a couple weeks ago," Finn said, shrugging. "He sounded good. Didn't know if he was gonna make it back for this."

"Is he still in New York, writing songs?" Tina asked.

Finn nodded, then looked at Santana. "You ever see him?"

She laughed. "It's a big city, Finn."

"Oh. Right." He bobbed his head in agreement.

Mercedes and Kurt exchanged a look, and Santana knew what was coming. They'd gone through everyone else; it was time to talk about the last member of the original New Directions. "What about Rachel?" Mercedes asked. "You guys are still friends?"

"Uh-huh." Actually, she was more than that—she was also her lawyer—and she knew the details of her life that Rachel Berry had managed to keep hidden from the world. Rachel was a star on Broadway, a respected member of the theater community. They all knew that(she'd invited them all to her first show years ago).

But the surprising thing about Rachel? As much as she loved being a star while she was on stage, she'd found that the public image part of her chosen career didn't suit her. She liked her privacy, liked being able to go to out to eat without having a camera shoved at her, liked not seeing her face splashed across the cover of a tabloid. So she'd decided early on in her career that she would give the audience all of her when she was on stage, and nothing when she was off it. As unlikely as it had seemed in high school, Rachel Berry had become an enigma.

And it was clearly driving their old friends crazy.

"Is she coming tonight?" Quinn asked, looking to Santana and absently rubbing her rounded belly.

"Yeah, she texted me when her plane landed. The flight was delayed, but she'll be here," Santana replied, smiling as she raised her glass to take a sip of her cocktail. She wasn't going to make it easy on them. She wanted to hear the words.

"So you must know about the whole wedding thing?" Kurt questioned.

"Wedding thing?" she repeated innocently.

He rolled his eyes, leaning toward her across the table. "You were probably two the last time the innocent act actually worked for you, Santana," he said, his voice half playful and half annoyed. "You know what we're talking about. Rumor among the theater crowd has it that Rachel got married recently. Is it true?"

"Yes."

Artie frowned. "Without telling any of us?"

"It was a really small ceremony. She wanted to keep it quiet for as long as possible."

"Then maybe she shouldn't have flashed that rock on her finger when she went to the Tony's," Mercedes said with a mischievous laugh. "Gotta say, though, the guy's got taste. Who is he?"

"Mmm…" Santana bit her lip, pretending to think hard. She loved this. Ten years ago she would have been bitter that people were paying attention to her for someone else, but now… she just found it hilarious. "I'm not really supposed to say."

Kurt gasped, his eyes widened before they narrowed quizzically. "She staged the whole thing, didn't she? There was no wedding, she just wanted to stir up the gossip mill." He shook his head before conceding admiringly, "An excellent move. She always was a little sneaky."

Tina laughed. "I think that would be a little much, even for high school Rachel."

Kurt just raised one perfectly shaped brow.

"Maybe she married a cat," Brittany suggested.

They all turned to look at her. Finn just smiled and squeezed her hand.

"No," Santana finally said, "he's not a cat, Britt."

"Then who?" Kurt waved a hand through the air. "Why all the secrecy? Is he fat?"

"Ugly?" Mike chimed in.

"Ancient?" Quinn queried, looking honestly intrigued now.

"A cartoon?" Brittany added helpfully.

"No." But Santana chuckled, imagining the look on his face when she told him all their theories later. "I'm not telling."

Kurt sighed loudly. "You're still a bitch, San," he said fondly.

She gave him a cheeky grin. "I know, but cheer up. You'll know soon enough."

Nearly everyone at the table perked up immediately. "What?"

She shrugged her slim shoulders and tossed her hair back. "I didn't mention? Oops. She's bringing him with her tonight."

They'd been married in, of all places, an old theater. It had been lit with candles and twinkle lights, and one of Rachel's best friends had provided them with music on her violin. Her fathers had been there, and Santana, his mom and sister(they'd had to threaten his mom with no grandkids if she said a word about it to _anyone_), and a few of their New York friends. One of Puck's best friends was a photographer, and he did took care of the pictures. Afterwards, Santana had thrown them a reception in her spacious apartment.

It had been simple, and quiet, and without a doubt one of the best days of Puck's whole fucking life. The fact that it was a secret never bothered him. They liked their privacy, no crime in that. And yeah, sure, it was gonna come out sooner or later. But they'd gotten their perfect day, with no paparazzi hounding them, no one analyzing her dress or the flowers or the names on the guest list. With their combined resources, they could've put on a Hollywood-type circus wedding. But none of that shit really mattered.

Honestly, it kind of still blew his mind whenever he realized that this was his life. Who'd have thought that Lima loser Puck would have exactly the life he wanted to have, and have it on his terms?

The only answer to that question was standing beside him waiting for the elevator, fidgeting with her hair like she hadn't taken half a damn hour hogging the bathroom to do it perfectly. Rachel was the only one who'd ever actually believed that he was worth more than the average jackass jock, and there was a part of him that still wondered where he'd be if she wasn't so damn stubborn about making him believe it, too. Luckily, the diamond sparkling on her finger said that he wasn't going to find out any time soon.

God, Puck wasn't a sap. He wasn't.

But if anyone could make him act like one, it was her. Since they'd been married less than two months and were definitely still in the honeymoon phase, he guessed it was okay.

"Stop," he told her, reaching out to take her hand before she started pulling strands _out_. There was no way he was letting her go home to New York bald. "You're starting to freak _me _out, and I don't even give a fuck what people think about me."

She smiled sheepishly and squeezed his hand, letting out a breath. "Sorry. I know it's stupid. But we're late, and I hate being late, and… I haven't seen most of our class for so long. I'm nervous."

"Says the woman who pretended to have sex on a stage in front of a thousand people," he said doubtfully.

"That's _art_, Noah. It's different." She shifted on her feet, pressing herself close against his side, and he knew she was just doing it because he comforted her or something but _damn_, he could pretty much see down her dress when she leaned just this way, and it took all his willpower not to say the hell with the reunion and take her back to their room. He definitely made a mental note not to let anyone else get this close to her tonight. "That was acting and those were strangers. This… this is a room full of people who mostly made my life hell for four years."

"Exactly."

"What?" As the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, she gave him a wide-eyed look of panic. She'd been expecting soothing, and _that _was what he gave her? "That was the worst job of reassuring someone I've ever heard, Noah."

He laughed. "They made your life hell," he repeated as he pressed the button for the first floor. "But everything they laughed at you for wanting, you got. You're successful and famous and absolutely fuckin' gorgeous, and your husband's the sexiest man that's gonna be at this damn party." She giggled at this, but didn't argue, and he just felt accomplished for making her laugh. "So yeah, all the people who were dicks to you? Tonight you walk in there and be happy and tell 'em to go to hell. Cause they were wrong about you."

"Thank you." She stood up on her tiptoes, because even those sexy heels she was wearing couldn't bring her up to his level, and kissed him. It was soft and sweet and almost painfully tender, and he could feel her body relaxing in his arms. "They were wrong about you, too, you know."

"Guess so." He smirked at her as the doors dinged open, signaling their arrival on the first floor. "But we both know I've got no problem telling 'em all to go to hell."

"Noah," she laughed, a warning in her tone. She let him lead her off the elevator. "Let's try not to curse out the rest of our class, please. I think we'll already cause enough of a stir."

"Probably." He touched her, a caress that started at her cheek and traced down her neck, her shoulder, her arm. He didn't know what the hell it was about her skin that was so addictive, but he loved touching her. And the way she leaned into his touch and nearly purred like a kitten? So hot. "You know, it's gonna come out after tonight. Someone's gonna let it slip, if Santana hasn't already."

Their friend had already sent them a text a few minutes ago from downstairs. _Where are you? Everyone wants to know who the mystery husband is._

"She hasn't," she stated easily. "She's the only one that knows, and you know how San feels about power."

"It's like her crack."

She nodded. "Exactly. But I know it'll come out." They were approaching the ballroom's doors, could hear the noise of old-school music and talk coming their way, and she reached out to take his hand again. "Think we're ready?"

"We can take 'em," he replied with a devilish grin. She chuckled and shook her head as they walked into the room.

The first person they ran into was unmistakable. The hair and glasses hadn't changed in ten years, nor had the way his eyes widened when they zeroed in, like fucking creepy missiles, on Rachel.

"Rachel Berry!"

She froze, just a step away from him, and Puck moved instantly so that she was partially behind him. Still, she smiled and managed to get out a reasonably good impression of welcome. "Hi, Jacob."

"She remembers me!"

"Hard not to," Puck mumbled. "Sorry, man, we gotta…" He motioned vaguely, since he would take Rach anywhere as long as it was _away_.

"Wait!" Jacob reached out an arm to grab Rachel but yanked it back just in time when he realized Puck looked like a man ready to hurt someone. "Rachel, I want you to meet my wife."

"Wife?" Puck and Rachel asked together. Someone had married him?

"Sweetheart! Sweetheart, come here!" A petite brunette with short brown hair appeared at his side, and he beamed proudly. "This is—"

"Suzy Pepper?" Rachel actually sounded happy to see her, the smile on her face genuine.

The brunette nodded. "Hi, Rachel. How are you?"

"Good, I'm really good. It's good to see you. And, um, congratulations on your… marriage! We'll have to catch up later." She looked dumbfounded as she and Puck walked away, then looked up at him blankly. "You don't think they have kids, do you?"

He cringed. "Shit, I hope not. You can't put that much crazy into a baby."

It didn't take them long to find the glee table, and Santana was the first one to see them. She was grinning like the fucking Cheshire Cat as she called out, "Took you long enough. Sneaking in a quickie before coming down to meet your friends?"

"What? No, I told you our plane was delayed," Rachel stated, but the blush in her cheeks gave her away. Okay, so both statements were true. But as he'd explained to her upstairs as he tugged at her blouse, if they were gonna be late, being _extra _late wasn't that bad.

Everyone else at the table was staring at them—first at Rachel, then at Puck, then at their joined hands. Santana looked like she was about to burst with joy at the surprise.

Kurt's voice came back first. "_You're _Mr. Rachel Berry?"

Puck bristled. _Mr. Rachel Berry? _Oh, fuck no. "Woah, wait a second here. She's Mrs. Noah Puckerman, I'm not—"

"Actually, no, I'm not. I haven't legally changed my name, and I intend to keep Berry for the stage," she explained to the others.

Puck was still frowning. "But, baby, he said—"

"I know." She patted his arm as she grinned at the others. "It's so good to see you guys!"

"_You're _the husband?" Tina asked.

"_Rachel's _husband?" Quinn added, just to clarify.

Brittany quirked her head at him. "You're not a cat. Or a cartoon."

Mercedes got up to examine the ring on Rachel's finger up close. "You guys are married? Seriously?"

Chuckling, Rachel raised an eyebrow at Santana. "Maybe I should have let you tell them."

The latina laughed loudly. "Trust me, they wouldn't have believed it."


	11. Eating the Paste' Special

**A/N: **this was in response to **gabi_in_wndrlnd**'s Gilmore Girls prompt:

_Logan: I have thought about asking you out, several times. I just don't think its such a good idea._  
_Rory: Why not?_  
_Logan: Because you're special._  
_Rory: Special, like 'Stop eating the paste', special?_  
_Logan: You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You are incredibly interesting. You're definitely girlfriend material. I, however, am definitely not boyfriend material._

I hope you guys enjoy it! =)

* * *

Rachel was off today. She could hear it and she could feel it. She could also feel the eyes of her fellow glee club members as they looked at her, no doubt trying to figure out what had happened to make her lose her perfect concept of pitch and rhythm. She tried to fix it, tried to get back into her groove, but she only succeeded in frustrating herself further when she failed.

When Mr. Schue finally let them go, giving her one long, suspicious glance—she was sorely tempted to yell that no, she wasn't doing this on purpose to somehow further her own interests, as he appeared to believe—she grabbed her bag and hurried out into the halls before everyone else. She went to her locker, taking some bit of peace from the empty after-school halls.

Until she realized that someone was following her. A glance over her shoulder showed that it was Puck, and she couldn't say she was really surprised. Who else would come after her? He was the closest thing she had to a friend in glee, and if she wasn't completely wrong(which was a possibility), he'd been rather attentive to her lately. Maybe even flirty, though she was pretty sure she'd imagined that.

But a girl could dream, and Rachel was better at it than most.

He came to a stop next to her and folded his arms over his chest. "What's wrong with you?"

"Have you noticed the amount of happy couples that we're surrounded by? Just in glee! Tina and Mike have their adorable Asian _everything_ together. Brittany and Artie might be the strangest pairing I've ever seen, but somehow they work. Then there's our own Ken and Barbie set. And Finn and Santana," she added, as if they were nothing more than an afterthought. Which they were, most of the time, except when she glanced around and realized that practically everyone else had someone and she was alone, staring at a lifetime of cats and Tony awards.

Puck shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Yeah, so?" He didn't think about couples much, except to pretty much ignore them when they were being too sappy. He didn't mind seeing a couple going at it, that was fine, but all the romance stuff? It made him kind of sick.

Rachel sighed as she twisted out her locker combination with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. To be having this conversation, with _this_ boy in particular, might have been a new low for her. "Never mind."

"No, come on. Tell me what's up."

"Nothing. I'm simply annoyed because my fierce drive and admittedly strong personality apparently make me undateable." She grabbed her history book from the neat little stack and started to reorganize the folders lined up next to it, just to give her hands something to do.

"That's what's bothering you?"

A little sulky, she nodded into her locker.

"Shit, Berry, you're not undateable."

She let out a rather unladylike snort, because the only other alternative would be to sink into the floor and there didn't seem to be any gaping black holes handy. The last thing she wanted was Puck's pity about her dating life. A very insistent piece of her was suddenly demanding that she shake him and ask what the hell he was doing if she was not, as she suspected, undateable.

Puck leaned against the locker next to hers. "I've thought about asking you out, several times. I just don't think it's such a good idea."

He expected her to immediately go on the defensive, but she just tilted her head to the side around her locker door and asked, "Why not?"

"Because you're special."

She took a little step back, looking up at him tentatively. "Special, like 'Stop eating the paste', special?"

Puck laughed, a little surprised by her sense of humor. For all her proper grammar and endless rambling that made him want to duct tape her mouth shut, the girl was also a little tweaked upstairs. He liked it. "You are beautiful. You are intelligent. You are incredibly interesting," he informed her, watching as her cheeks went pink with pleasure. "You're definitely girlfriend material. I, however, am definitely not boyfriend material."

Her happiness at his compliments was quickly overshadowed by his assessment of himself. He liked to portray himself as a cocky boy, Noah Puckerman, but there was more to him than just the strutting jock who borrowed other people's girlfriends and tossed drinks in their faces. She had some doubts about his reasoning on the boyfriend front. On paper, Finn should have been excellent boyfriend material, but when they'd been together they'd just sort of... fallen short, of their own expectations, of happiness, of what they should have been. Now she took everything that looked good on paper with a grain of salt.

So Noah, who looked like a terrible bet on paper? She had her own ideas about him. "Don't you think you should let your potential girlfriend be the judge of that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I think I know myself pretty well, but if you don't believe me there's a string of girls who'll be glad to agree. Probably loudly, with lots of cursing."

Rachel watched him wince, no doubt imagining all the things his jilted hook-ups would say if asked for their opinion on his character, and giggled. The thought of him with all those girls was one she didn't like to dwell on, but the fact that he was no longer with any of them... that she was okay with. "They don't count."

"How'd you figure?"

"They weren't girlfriends," she pointed out simply, then frowned. "You've never actually been a boyfriend, have you, Noah?"

His silence and the perplexed look on his face were all the answers she needed.

"You should try it," she suggested, smiling again. "And maybe I know you better than you think." She closed her locker with a little clang, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, and turned to walk away down the empty hallway. She'd only made it halfway to the double doors that led outside when he called after her.

"Hey, Rach?"

"Yes?"

Puck shifted once, then looked at her with something she'd rarely seen in his eyes—something serious, and raw. "I'm not Finn. Dude's my boy and everything, but I can't be his substitute for you."

Her heart did something funny in her chest, and she didn't know if it was melting at his honesty or just constricting at the thought of him worrying over something like that. The sad part was, there'd been a time when she had considered using him as a Band-Aid to cover the pain of wanting Finn. The fact that he'd done the same with her, to help with his issues with Quinn, didn't make it any easier. "Good, because I'm not looking for Finn," she stated, just as honest.

He was quiet for a moment before nodding, letting that fact sink in. Rachel offered him one last smile before she turned and left the hall, thinking only that she hoped he would take her advice, just this once.

~/~

The next morning when she saw Puck, he was carrying a grape slushy for her. He didn't really explain it, didn't mention their conversation the day before, just handed over the drink and started talking about a dream he'd had where Super Mario was president and Princess Peach was the first lady.

It was a strange conversation, to say the least—how could a discussion on president Mario's politics be _normal_?—but Rachel had to admit, it was a good way to start her day.

Over the next week, she saw more of him, talked more with him, than she ever had before. And she found that she was actually happy again, which she really hadn't expected. It felt good having someone to talk to, someone to sit with during glee who wasn't whispering snide comments about her under their breath.

They had the weirdest conversations, Mario and his presidential aspirations aside. More than once she found herself in the middle of a 'should we or shouldn't we date' debate without even realizing it. Whenever it hit her, she just looked at him, her eyes sparkling with the laughter that she wouldn't let escape her mouth because she knew it would probably offend him.

No boy had ever chased her before, and she rather liked it—if this counted as being chased, anyway. He was certainly coming after her, finding her at her locker and at lunch and bringing up the hypothetical discussion of their dating at some point(which was beginning to feel less and less hypothetical every time she saw him). The fact that he was the one arguing against it seemed nullified by the fact that he was the one who kept returning to the issue.

And Rachel, who had always been a bit impatient, found that she didn't mind this little game they were playing. She wanted to reach the end, because she had the sneaking suspicion that she was going to win, but when each roll of the dice was a flirtation, she really couldn't complain about the time it took to reach the finish line.

When Puck told Mr. Schuester to "Chill out" one day when the teacher was about to complain about Rachel's suggestions for song choices, she seriously had to stop herself from hugging him. She didn't know whether or not he'd appreciate the gesture in front of everyone else.

So she waited until they were leaving the building afterward before telling him, "You're a far better person than you think you are, Noah."

He snorted out a laugh. "And you're more optimistic than you should be."

"You think I'm seeing what I want to see."

He shrugged, looking off down the hall.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then shook her head. "I think you're wrong."

"Yeah, and what if I'm right?" He reached out a hand and pulled them both to a stop, his eyes glowering down at her.

"Then you'll be right, and I'll be disappointed," she answered firmly. "But I don't see how that's any better than us not knowing who's right and me _still_ being disappointed."

He huffed out a breath and shook his head, as if wondering over her sanity. "You've seen the shitstorm I can be."

She couldn't help it, she smirked. Honestly, she was pretty sure his smirking had rubbed off on her to begin with. "I have, yes."

"So why would you want to be with me?"

"Why wouldn't I want to be with you?"

They held each others' gazes for a moment, a challenge issued and met, and he finally chuckled lowly. "You're even crazier than people think, Berry, and that's saying something."

She smiled. "But I get what I want, don't I?"

"Yeah," he admitted, reaching down to take her hand in his. It felt like a perfect fit. "Yeah, shit, I guess you do."


	12. Open Relationship

**A/N: **this was written for **beckingham**'s prompt: _Puck and Rachel try and fail to have an "open" relationship. Bonus points if it was originally her idea._

_"Why did you throw away her number? She obviously desired to fornicate."_  
_"Okay, a) stop calling it that, for real, and b) why the fuck do you keep on trying to push me onto other chicks?"_

* * *

When she came up with the idea, he was kind of shocked. There were a thousand things he expected to hear come from Rachel Berry's mouth(girl legit never stopped making noise, unless she was eating or sleeping), but "Noah, I think we should try having an open relationship"? Not one of them.

At first he actually thought she didn't understand the meaning of the term "open relationship," like maybe she was thinking they needed to share all their feelings and shit(in which case he would have run for the door like his ass was on fire, because hearing how her day went was one thing. Giving her free reign to turn off the mind-to-mouth filter? No fucking way. That girl had _thoughts_. Like, a shitload of them).

But a few subtle questions proved that she knew what she was asking for.

They'd been messing around for a while, and since she'd never seemed like the type of girl who'd go for casual, he'd kind of been waiting with dread for her to ask for something more—a commitment, a title, a set of his-and-hers sweaters with fucking hearts and flowers(her wardrobe had evolved since high school, but not _that _much). None of which he was prepared to give her, which meant that this—whatever—they had would have to come to an end.

So the first thing he felt when she came up with her very un-Berry suggestion was relief. She didn't want his balls in a bowl on her nightstand. She was actually giving him _space_, which no woman he'd ever hooked up with before had given him; even the cougars he'd played with in high school eventually got possessive. And yeah, this thing made him _kind of _her boyfriend, but there was enough wiggle room that he didn't feel like he'd just been collared and leashed like a desperate-to-escape puppy.

It was an awesome idea. He almost felt ashamed he hadn't thought of it himself, except he was pretty sure it would have crossed his mind if he hadn't known somewhere inside that Rachel would have considered _him _bringing it up as a cause for bodily harm.

Whatever. She had brought it up, which meant she was amazing and he was one lucky bastard.

At least, it seemed that way at first. He didn't have to feel guilty about looking at other girls, didn't need to curb his natural instinct to flirt when a hot woman approached him. If he wanted to go out and Rachel didn't, or couldn't, he didn't need to feel bad about finding someone else to spend the night with. He had every dude's wish—an endless variety of women, all while keeping the one he kind of liked spending time with.

But one night it hit him, while he was out with a gorgeous blonde with tits that could probably be used as flotation devices. He kept catching himself comparing her to Rachel and finding her the loser in all competitions—except cup size, but hey, he kinda liked the way Rachel's breasts fit in his hands—and he suddenly wondered: if he was out with this chick, who the hell was Berry with?

The thought of her out with some douche bag who was checking out _her _goods made him feel a little sick to his stomach.

He didn't say anything about it for a while. He and Rachel were still going out regularly, and he slowly tried to make sure more of her nights were filled with him, so they couldn't be filled with someone else.

God, he couldn't even thinkof _her_ being filled with someone else.

The really sad part? Even on the nights when they didn't end up going out, he wasn't really interested in going out with other women anymore.

She'd fucking broken him. And he didn't know what the hell to do to fix it.

~/~

There was a bar down the street from Rachel's place that they liked to go to, because the drinks were reasonable and the bartender was cool, a friend of Puck's who always served them fast no matter how busy the place got. They had a standing date to meet there on Friday nights, and when he walked in that week he saw her immediately, sitting on her normal stool at the bar, her purse on the seat that they both knew was his. There was a full beer bottle waiting for him beside her wine glass, and he smiled as he started toward her.

He'd made it halfway across the room before a swaying redhead stepped(stumbled) into his path, making him come up short with his hands on her shoulders to keep her upright. She giggled and thanked him, and he knew enough about women to know that the way she pressed closer to him wasn't because she'd had too much to drink.

Puck wasn't interested, but the woman was beautiful—and obviously horny—so he stuck around a minute to let her flirt and make tipsy suggestions that would probably turn her pale skin red if she hadn't been emboldened by the empty cocktail glasses on her table. When he motioned toward the bar, explaining he was meeting a friend, the woman grabbed her purse and bent over the table, no doubt betting on him checking out her ass, before shoving a slip of paper into his hand with a wink.

He laughed to himself as he moved on, looking at the loopy name and digits on the post-it before crinkling it up in his hand. He tossed it into the trashcan on his way to his stool at the bar beside Rachel. "Hey."

"Hi." She smiled a greeting, but her eyes followed the redhead curiously before returning to him. "Why did you throw away her number? She obviously desired to fornicate."

Puck nearly choked on his drink. "Okay, a) stop calling it that, for real, and b) why the fuck do you keep on trying to push me onto other chicks?"

"I'm simply encouraging you to take advantage of our open relationship, Noah," she replied, looking so earnest.

He kind of hated that look. "Tonight I'm here to have a few damn drinks with you, not hook up with that chick," he said with a shrug. "You're not here picking up numbers, why should I?"

Rachel shifted on her seat, fingers playing with the stem of her glass before she dipped a hand into her bag. "Actually…" She pulled a napkin out of her purse, holding it up enough for him to see the scribbled phone number.

He stared at it in near horror. "What? Who? When?"

"You were late," she said simply by way of explanation.

"Three minutes," he shot back.

She shrugged sheepishly and took a sip of her wine. "So really, Noah, if you like her, the rules say that it would be fine to—"

"I know what the rules say," he cut her off, and he hated the damn rules even more than he hated that damn 'why don't you go check out that other chick while I sit here and smile' look. Only Rachel would have _rules _for this kind of thing. They were printed out and laminated. She kept her copy tacked up on her fridge with a gold star magnet. His was somewhere on the floor in his bedroom, probably hidden under a week's worth of dirty clothes, and as far as he was concerned, it could rot there.

And he knew that was fucked up, that he should be shouting from the rooftops about any rule that let him sex up other chicks and not get in trouble for it with Rachel, but honestly? As awesome as the whole arrangement seemed, she should not be okay with him going off to bang someone else, much less encouraging it.

He sure as fuck wasn't cool with her having sex with anyone else. That was the part of this whole thing that he hadn't thought about at first, but was enough to make a guy think twice—like the fine print on a drug that said that sure, it could heal your allergies, but it also might kill you or make your dick fall off in the meantime.

Fucking fine print. That shit needed to be said up front in bold.

He sighed loudly, wondering how such a great deal had gone so wrong. "Look, Rach, about the rules—about this whole thing—"

She froze, her eyes big and worried. "Oh, God. You broke one, didn't you?"

"Maybe."

The breath she let out was short and quick, a clear indication that she was on her way to crazytown. "Okay. Okay, um… which one?" And he knew she was totally running through a mental list of the laws of their fucked-up relationship, deeming which ones meant the end and which ones might be flexible.

It took him a minute to remember, because he hadn't looked at the goddamn list since the week she'd given it to him and tested—yes, seriously _tested_—him on it. "Four."

"Four? Four? Oh." That was it, three uttered words and then complete silence. Her face had gone completely blank, and her eyes were firmly trained on her wine. Puck would have bet a thousand bucks that rule four was running through her mind on repeat: _Do not let your feelings get involved._

"You don't even need to say it. I know, I fucked up, but… I don't want to do this thing anymore, Rach," he told her quietly. "It was cool at the beginning but now it's just messing with my head and I can't—"

"I understand, Noah," she interrupted, lifting her eyes to meet his. Was it his imagination, or were they a little brighter than normal? "May I ask who she is?"

"Who she—"

"Never mind. It's really none of my business anyway, is it, and I don't think I want to know."

"Wait, Rach, I didn't mean—"

Her smile quivered as she shook her head, dark hair flying around her face. "It was my idea that put us in this situation in the first place." She snorted out a laugh, a strange sound coming from her. "Funny, isn't it? That I thought I could keep myself from getting hurt by doing this, and this is how it ends. Stupid."

"Rachel—"

"It was a bad idea to start with. I don't know what I was—"

"Would you shut up for a damn minute?"

She fell silent, her mouth snapping shut even as her eyes went sad and accusing.

She didn't like being interrupted? He didn't care, because he didn't like it when she jumped to the wrong conclusions and then wouldn't be quiet long enough to be corrected. Something they'd need to work on in the future. "I'm done with this open relationship crap, Rachel."

"I _know_, Noah," she began, sounding hurt.

"No, you don't," he said bluntly. "I'm not done with _you_, Rach. I'm done with everyone else, okay? And if you still want to go out there and fuck around with other guys, well… too damn bad, cause this little experiment of yours? It taught me a few things."

She looked up at him, and it unnerved him to realize that he couldn't read her expression. "Really? And what would those things be?"

"I don't like other girls." He frowned at his own words, knowing that was wrong and hell, if there was any time to be honest, this was probably it; he was already making an ass out of himself in the middle of a bar, might as well go all the way. "I mean, I like them, but I don't like any of them as much as I like you." Too much honesty? Judging by the look on her face, maybe. "Point is, I don't want them—not to date, not to 'fornicate' with. I want you for all that."

She blushed, but she didn't look pissed, so he continued.

"And another thing I learned? I don't like to share."

Rachel leaned toward him on her stool. "So when you say you broke rule number four, the feelings that got involved were…"

"For you," he admitted.

She smiled. "Can I tell you a secret, Noah?"

"Uh, yeah." Except was she really just gonna move on after he told her that?

"I broke rule number four before I even wrote out that list."

He grinned and lowered his lips onto hers for a kiss, sliding his down her arm… and into her purse.

"Are you trying to rob me, Noah?" She breathed the question against his lips, smiling faintly.

He chuckled as he pulled back a guilty hand, the napkin with some other man's number held between two fingers. "You're not gonna need this anymore."

She shrugged as she watched him crumple it up and toss it carelessly behind the bar. "Guess not. Looks like my boyfriend's kind of a jealous guy."

"Damn straight, baby."

And the whole boyfriend thing? Felt less like a collar and leash than he'd ever thought it would.


	13. Just one night

**AN: **This was written for **sara345**'s prompt: _"Just one night- that's all- I won't ask for anything else. I won't talk about feelings, I don't expect hearts and flowers. I don't need commitment... I just need you tonight."_

Enjoy, and thanks for your comments and encouragement!

* * *

She showed up on his doorstep at just after ten, nervous, hopeful, and completely sober. Honestly, she wondered if the last one was a good idea—she certainly could have used a little liquid courage right about now—but she didn't want to be impaired in any way. Not tonight. Not since it was all she was ever going to get.

And that was okay. She'd come to terms with it; Rachel Berry and Noah Puckerman were just not meant to be together. They'd tried that, a couple of times, and it hadn't worked. It hurt, but it was the truth. They'd moved on, even sort of become friends.

She hoped this didn't ruin that. She valued their friendship, she did. But lately she'd been able to do little besides think about him, and how much she wanted him as something more than a friend, and it was starting to make her feel... hollow. Like everything that made her warm or happy or _alive _had been scooped out by the simple act of wanting him, and she was helpless to stop it.

So yes, Rachel hoped she wasn't about to make things horribly awkward between them. But more than anything, she hoped he didn't say no. Because she could deal with walking out of his place tomorrow morning and closing off that bleeding part of her heart, she could turn whatever messed-up feelings she had into fuel for her music, she could maybe even see herself moving on somewhere down the line(very, very down the line, but surely before she died an old, lonely woman surrounded by her awards). She didn't know if she could deal with him turning her down.

Puck opened the door and smiled when he saw her standing there. "Hey, Rach. What are you—"

"I need to talk to you. Well, ask you something—or, technically, tell you something," she babbled, sliding past him into the apartment.

He chuckled as he closed the door and turned to look at her. "Okay... did you do something illegal, Berry?"

"No, Noah, I didn't do something illegal." Unless stupidity had been outlawed, which she doubted. "I've just been thinking a lot lately, about you and me, and... it's driving me crazy, so I've come up with a solution," she admitted bluntly. Talking around the issue for the next hour would be more her style, but she didn't think she'd have the courage if she didn't just spit it out right now; it took nearly all she had to meet his eyes and continue. "I think we should sleep together. Again."

His eyes widened and then he blinked, just once.

Feeling as though she was about to jump out of her skin, she rushed on, "Just one night—that's all—I won't ask for anything else. I won't talk about feelings, I don't expect hearts and flowers. I don't need commitment... I just need you tonight."

He opened his mouth—dumbfounded, it seemed—but she was so scared that he might choose this moment to be noble, to let his brain actually do the thinking, that she opened the tie on her coat with fumbling fingers and let it fall down her shoulders.

She'd been naked with him before, let him touch her in ways so few men ever had, but she wasn't sure she'd ever felt more nervous than she did standing in his entryway in heels and a carefully chosen black bra and panties set she'd picked up at Victoria's Secret especially for tonight. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she felt sure he could hear it from where he stood.

Her coat rustled to the floor, falling by the bag she'd dropped at her feet(complete with a change of clothes; even daring, moving on Rachel didn't relish the thought of walking out tomorrow in a coat and lingerie, thank you very much).

In the complete silence that followed, she heard it: a woman's voice, coming from the kitchen.

Rachel froze, mortification seeping over her like a coat of slime. "Oh my God. Someone's here? You just let me... _proposition_ you while you had someone here?" she gasped, dropping into a crouch to hide herself and pick up her coat. Her eyes flicking frantically toward the doorway, where she was sure a slender, tall blonde model type would appear at any moment, she tried to put on her coat, ended up putting her right arm through the left arm hole, considered forcing the damn thing to make that work, then struggled to properly dress herself without showing any more skin than necessary. Seriously, right now she didn't want to show anything—not her knees, not her face, and certainly not her lace-clad boobs.

She couldn't believe this. It was just a nightmare, right? It had to be. Because Rachel Berry making a fool of herself was nothing new, but stripping down in the hallway with her ex-boyfriend, now friend, while he had some hussy over? That was an all-time low in a life not exactly lacking in embarrassing situations(what? She was a performer. _Shy_ wasn't at the top of her description list).

And God, how dense was this girl, anyway, to not notice that another woman had come inside, undressed, and redressed in front of her date for the evening? No abundance of brain cells there, though Rachel couldn't honestly say she was surprised... aside from herself, of course, Puck had never really gone for intelligence.

Snapping out of her internal babbling, her only thought on escape, she yanked at the handles of her shoulder bag and cursed when her blouse came tumbling out onto the floor.

Screw the blouse. She had to get the hell out of here.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Puck, apparently over the shock, reached out to stop her. "Hold on a sec, Rach. There's no one here."

She sent him a withering glance as she turned the knob and tugged at the door. The ease with which he held it shut made her want to kick him with her pretty new black heels, but she was convinced that, her luck being what it was, she'd probably only end up hurting her shoes. "I heard her," she spat frostily. "I'm not an idiot, Noah. Get out of my way."

"You're not an idiot. You _do _jump to conclusions," he returned, and there was something—amusement? Intrigue? Interest?—shining in his eyes as he looked down at her. Rachel looked away uncomfortably. "What you heard was the television."

"What?"

"The TV," he repeated patiently. "It's on in the living room. The voice you heard? Probably some chick trying to sell chips or cable tv or something."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, studying him. She knew his face well enough to know when he was lying; it only took a second to realize he was telling the truth. "So there's not—"

"No."

"And you weren't—"

"No."

"Oh." Her cheeks flamed pink. She wanted to turn back time ten minutes and tell her younger, less humiliated self to head for the hills and avoid the embarrassment. How had her little seduction gone so horribly wrong? It wasn't supposed to be this complicated.

Puck smirked, took a step closer, and slid one hand casually under her hair, warm palm resting against the back of her neck. "You were saying?"

She shook her head, weakly. "Never mind, Noah, I—"

"Uh-uh," he murmured. "One night?"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

"You sure about this?"

She took a breath and nodded again.

She wasn't really a no commitment kind of girl. She knew that. He probably knew that. But he was Noah, and no matter how many commitment men she ran across—decent guys, who wouldn't cheat on her and might even want a ring and kids someday—her mind always came back to him.

So she'd take her one night, use that time with him to heal whatever was wrong inside her, and see what happened from there. She was strong, stronger than she looked, and she could survive a stupid heart that refused to listen to her head.

He looked at her, looked at her like he was looking _through _her, and she was sure he was about to say no. But then he leaned down and kissed her, the thumb on her neck gently stroking, his arm pulling her close against his body, and everything inside her screamed that they were both exactly where they were supposed to be.

They moved clumsily into his bedroom, neither willing to let go long of the other long enough to make the trip safe(she was pretty sure she'd have a bruise on her back in the morning from when he backed her into that door, but she honestly didn't give a damn; she'd take a thousand bruises for the way she felt in his arms).

He paused just inside his bedroom, his hands on the hastily done knot of her coat, his breath coming hard as he held himself in check. Their gazes met, and the look in his eyes—turned on, slightly crazy from wanting _her_—tugged warmly at her stomach. "Point of no return, Rach."

"I know, Noah." Smiling, she reached out and slid her hands under his shirt, laying them flat against his stomach. His skin was warm and smooth, and she could feel the distinctly masculine way his muscles tensed and relaxed at her touch. She trailed her fingertips over his abs in a light caress before tugging the shirt up and over his head.

He grinned like a man who'd gotten the exact answer he wanted, and had her coat on the floor for the second time that night in an instant.

Rachel had felt empty for such a long time, had wanted this for such a long time, but she was still shocked by her own reaction to him. When he kissed her, his mouth traveling from her lips down her neck, over her collarbone and to her breasts, she felt her insides humming. When he hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and slowly slid them down her legs, his hands just skimming her skin, she quivered and bit her lip. When he finally entered her and she thrust back against him, his warm skin covering hers, the wave of completeness that washed over her was amazing.

And when she arched against him, calling out his name, she felt wonderfully alive. She felt _new_. Later she'd think that that must be what a phoenix felt like as the old version of itself was consumed by flames to rise again, revitalized and whole, from the ashes. She'd been a sad, molting phoenix waiting to ignite, and Noah was her fire.

At that moment, though, she couldn't think anything at all.

* * *

Rachel woke up alone the next morning. She knew it before she even opened her eyes. It might have been the way the bed didn't dip down with his weight, or the fact that he wasn't snuggled up against her back(he was surprisingly cuddly when he slept), but a part of her thought that his absence was just something that she could sense now, after knowing each other so long.

The fact that he would just get up and leave while she slept hurt, and she let herself wallow in the sting for a moment before opening her eyes and sitting up. She'd expected something like this to happen, and expected the pain. After all, she had offered a night with no strings. Of course he'd taken it at just that, and she'd deal with it.

Surprisingly, after last night, she thought she might actually be able to. Puck had filled the empty corners that had been gnawing at her, and even now she felt... good. It wasn't fabulous, but it was a start.

She'd gotten out of bed, bare feet on the cool floor and a blanket wrapped around herself, before she noticed the note on the pillow next to her. Pushing her hair out of her face, she reached out to grab it. Scribbled in Puck's vaguely messy scrawl was a short message: _Went to get breakfast. Hid your clothes so you can't leave yet, we need to talk._

Talk. Well, that was sure to be interesting, given the night they'd had. Torn between amusement and annoyance, she tugged on one of his T-shirts and did a walk of the apartment to see if she could find her clothes. She felt ridiculous doing it, like he'd arranged some strange Easter egg hunt just for her.

She'd only managed to find one shoe, her underwear, and her skirt when the front door opened.

Puck walked in with coffee in one hand and a bakery bag in the other, and smiled when he saw her. "Morning."

"You stole my clothes." But she couldn't manage to sound that upset with the smell of coffee in the air.

"'S not stealing when they're still in the apartment with you," he reasoned, holding out a paper cup to her.

She narrowed her eyes, but took the offering gladly, and climbed onto one of the barstools by the kitchen counter. A sip of the hot drink had her smiling. "Where are the rest of my belongings?"

"Top shelf in the closet."

She shook her head. "I should have known you would hide them somewhere high." She took the bag from him, pulled out a cranberry bagel, lightly toasted—her favorite—and decided that he was forgiven.

Puck watched her while she tore a piece off and popped it into her mouth, then cleared his throat. "So. Last night."

She raised an eyebrow, waiting to see where he would go with this. When a moment passed and he just looked at her expectantly, she realized that he was probably waiting for her to take over from there, as usual. The thing was, she didn't feel like it. She wasn't going to apologize, or explain herself, or pat him on the back and assure him it was nothing. And if this was where things got awkward, she certainly wasn't going to be the one to start it. "Yes, Noah?"

He looked at her like she'd suddenly sprouted another head. "You don't wanna talk about it?"

"I don't think there's anything that needs to be discussed," she stated, hopping up from her seat and going toward the bedroom. She grabbed his desk chair and dragged it into the closet, then climbed up to retrieve her belongings.

"What? That's... that's bullshit," he exclaimed, following her and grabbing the chair when it started to wobble underneath her. She noticed his eyes do a slow path up her bare legs. "You discuss everything. If you could discuss breathing before actually doing it, you would."

She rolled her eyes as she hopped down, holding her coat, blouse, and other shoe. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? I don't need to discuss _everything_, just the… complicated things. And as I told you last night, this wasn't complicated." She looked up at him and smiled, a little surprised by her own calm. "Now, breakfast?"

He followed her back toward the kitchen, though he still looked convinced that she'd been abducted by aliens in the time it had taken him to walk down to the corner bakery and back. "Yeah, okay. Breakfast."

* * *

It didn't ruin their friendship. Actually, things pretty much went back to the way they'd been before, and Rachel was sure that she'd done the right thing. She still wished that things were different, that he'd be _more_, but at least she'd gotten her one last amazing night with Puck, and he… well, she didn't think he thought about it much.

At least, not until the knock on her door at just past ten the next Tuesday night. Dressed for bed in gray sweats and a tank top, she padded over to the door and peered out to see who it was. When she saw who it was, she yanked the chain off and pulled the door open. "Noah?"

He didn't smile. Actually, he looked a little sick as he stepped inside, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans—something he only did when he was nervous, she knew.

She lingered around him, uncertain, wanting to help but not knowing how. "Are you all right, Noah? Do you need something?"

"Yeah. I want something from you, Berry."

Something about the way he said those words sent a shiver down her spine. "Okay…"

"You've been in my head every goddamn second since that night, and it's driving me crazy. I don't know why you came over when you did, or what the hell you were thinking, but here's what it comes down to: I think we should be together. Again."

Her heart tripped in her chest. "Together?"

He shrugged, a hopeful little smile playing at his lips. "Just forever, that's all. I won't ask for anything else. I probably still won't talk about feelings, but there might be hearts and flowers… well, at least, flowers. But as fucked as this probably sounds, as fuckin' weird as it feels _saying_ this, I do need commitment... and I think you do, too."

"I can't believe those words just came out of your mouth."

"I can't, either, but they're true. So what do you think, deal?"

She smiled, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Honestly, I think I can accept your terms. Yes, Noah, deal."


	14. Polar Bears

**A/N: **Someone pointed out to me that a few of the drabble meme prompts over at LJ were deleted, I guess taking the fills with them? Sad. =( So here's another one that I did... now I can't remember who posted the prompt originally, or even what the exact prompt was, but I think(hope) it was something to the effect of this:

_"We're out of ice."_

_"We're out of ice? But where will all the polar bears live?"  
_

__Enjoy. =)

* * *

Puck's never seen Rachel drunk before. Actually, he's pretty sure she's never _been _drunk before, so when he realizes that Santana's been giving her drinks all night and she's actually been finishing them off, he's kind of intrigued to see how things play out.

It's a celebration, after all. The football team won another game, their third in a row—pretty much a miracle—and Mike's parents are out of town for the weekend, giving them the perfect place for a party.

The big backyard is full of people and drinks and laughter, and Puck's feeling pretty damn good with a tipsy Rachel leaning all over him.

Matt emerges from the crowd and smiles and nods at them as he passes, but he's apparently on a mission. Seeing Mike near the house, he calls out, "Hey, man! We're out of ice!"

It happens so fast, Puck almost misses it. All he knows is one second his girlfriend is wrapping her arms around him, apparently feeling good even though she can't walk straight because she's grinning and giggling at absolutely nothing, and the next she's on the ground, her hands on her head like she just heard that musical theatre's been outlawed(which, Puck thinks, maybe it _should be_).

She starts letting out this little wailing noise, and Puck starts to freak the fuck out as Matt stops midstep to stare and Santana and Brittany saunter up to watch. Shit, what's a seizure look like? And why is everyone just standing around when his girl obviously needs help? "Rach? Babe, what—"

"We're out of ice?" she repeats, frantic. God, is she _sobbing? _"But where will all the polar bears live?"

She's his girl and all, but right then Puck thinks she's had one shot too many of crazy juice.

Santana doesn't bother holding it in, she drops her head back and laughs loudly.

Puck thinks he would laugh, too, if he hadn't just imagined a thousand things happening to Rach that would land her in the hospital(none of them being complete stupidity thanks to alcohol, but the way she's been guzzling those fruity drinks, maybe he should've seen it coming). He turns to Matt and glares, and everything in his expression says, _Look what you did, dude._

Matt grins and shrugs, as if to say, _I'm not takin' the blame for this one. Your girl, your problem._

Meanwhile, Brittany drops to her knees at Rachel's side, looking heartbroken. "Poor Shamu."

"Uh, Britt?" Santana puts a hand on her friend's shoulder. "That's the whale."

"Oh." The blonde blinks in confusion. It's a very familiar expression for her. "Then who's the polar bear?"

Santana tilts her head to the side in thought, and Puck wonders if he's actually the _sane _one here. Why is she encouraging the crazy? "Nanook?" she guesses.

"It doesn't matter, he's going to _die_ without a home!" Rachel cries, and reaches out to grab Puck's leg like she expects him to have the answer to global warming. He's legit never seen her doe eyes this big or sad before. "Maybe we could do a fundraiser? I could sing."

"Sure thing, babe. We'll get on that tomorrow," Puck assures her, reaching down to help her stand. He's pretty sure it's time to get this girl home to bed. And shit, she's so wasted that he'll probably have to put her to bed _alone_.

"I like to sing…"

"I know, Rach."

"I'm very good," she continued persuasively, nodding her head like a fucking bobble head doll. Then she starts belting out her own special rendition of "A Little Black Rain Cloud" from Winnie the Pooh(and fuck him that he knows that, he's spent way too much time with his sister), 'cause apparently even Rachel Berry isn't familiar with a song about polar bears.

The funny thing about that, though? Even drunk off her ass, Rachel makes it sound like something that could be on the radio. His girl is just that talented.

But if any of the glee members around them join in and turn this into a full-on musical number, he _will _beat someone down.

"You guys headed out, then?" Matt asks.

"Yeah. Thanks, asshole," Noah chuckles, leading Rachel toward the house.

Matt grins and calls after them, "No problem."

Behind them, Santana helps Brittany to her feet, but the blonde is still frowning. "San?"

"Yeah?"

"If all the polar bears die, who's going to sell Klondike bars?"

She's used to Brittany's questions, but Rachel plus this is too much and she's a little buzzed. So Santana just laughs.


	15. Cops

**A/N: **Again, I don't remember who posted the prompt, but this was written in response to this:

_"Taser that bitch!"_**  
**

_"Noah, you're going to have to stop watching Cops. I'm starting to worry."_

Hope you guys like it, and thanks for your comments!

* * *

Something was going on in the living room. Rachel could guess what it was before she even got downstairs, but she still had to go look. Sometimes her life with Noah resembled a car accident in that sense.

She walked in just in time to see her boyfriend gesture rudely at the television and yell, "Stop fuckin' around! Taser that bitch!"

All right, that was enough. This had gotten out of control. Last week he'd screamed something equally profane at the tv when they had company—Santana and Matt, and their two year old daughter. She crossed the room to stand in front of the screen and put her hands on her hips. "Noah, you're going to have to stop watching Cops. I'm starting to worry."

"Babe, come on. You're blockin the view." It was only part of the view, cause she was tiny and he'd convinced her that they needed the huge flat screen that made him feel like he was _in _the fucking football games that he watched, but still. Whenever she pulled this shit, she somehow put herself in the exact center of the picture. It was like black magic.

"I'm blocking the view because I don't want you to watch this anymore."

"_Why_?" he demanded, looking at her like they'd fallen into an alternate reality and she'd just asked him for a double cheeseburger.

"It's violent and trashy and… really, Noah, doesn't the fact that half the show is bleeped out say anything to you about its quality?"

"Uh, yeah. It says it's fucking awesome." He reached out to nudge her out of the way. When she slapped at his hands, he gave up on subtle and wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her onto the couch next to him.

He knew her well enough to shift his legs and guard his junk when he saw that wicked glint in her eyes, so he managed to get away with that with only a punch grazing his thigh.

Damn, Rach was going straight for the jewels today. And she called Cops too violent?

"Hey, retract the claws. Sit down and watch this with me," he coaxed.

"I don't want to watch it. I'm fairly certain that I can live my entire life without watching an episode of Cops and still die fulfilled," she stated, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

He should have focused on that jutting lip, or the way Rachel saying the word _fulfilled _was totally hot, but his brain fizzled on the fact she stated so simply. "You've never seen Cops before?"

"No."

"But, ugh… woman, how do we live together?"

"I'm beginning to wonder that myself."

He narrowed his eyes at her even as he put an arm around her shoulder to anchor him to her side. "I'm gonna ignore that. Just watch this episode. You'll see what I'm talking about."

"When you say _taser that bitch_, I think I understand what you're talking about," she stated wryly. "I might wish that I didn't, but…"

"Shh. You're ruining it."

"Right, because I wouldn't want you to miss seeing the officer push some hoodlum's face down into the ground." She glanced at the television screen and winced. "Must they be so aggressive, Noah?"

"That other guy totally started it. Besides, they're _cops_, baby. It's what they _do._"

Because he said that as if her even questioning it was sacrilege, she just rolled her eyes and went with it.

God, the things she did for love.

She sat through the show, telling herself that it was mostly because she was comfortable snuggling up against Noah's side on the couch. When it was over, she frowned at the screen.

"Well?" he asked expectantly. "Wha'd you think?"

"There's too much profanity, and I have some trouble believing that this is actually real life, but…"

"Yeah?"

"Those tasers are really quite effective, aren't they?"

He grinned. Finally, she was getting into it. "Hell yeah, they are."

She bit her lip. "Do you think maybe I could get one?"

Remembering her temper—and the earlier shot at his balls—Puck's eyes widened and he shook his head, reaching for the remote. "Shit, you know what? Maybe you're right. Let's find something else to watch."

Because a kick ass show was one thing. But a show like this giving his baby _ideas?_ That was just downright dangerous.


	16. Newborn

**A/N: **This was written for the prompt _Puck stays awake with their newborn. _Less humor than blatant fluff, but I hope you guys like it anyway!

* * *

It was just after two o'clock in the morning, and Noah was the only one awake in his darkened house. Even in the nursery the lights were down dim while he sat in the cushioned glider that he'd surprised Rachel with a month before her delivery and stared, just stared, down into the ruffled pink bassinet where his daughter slept.

At two weeks old, Audrey Puckerman held his heart in her tiny little hands, and she hadn't even learned it yet. But she would, he knew she would. He'd make sure of it.

He didn't need to be here. He knew that. He should be in bed next to Rachel, stealing every moment of sleep he could since there really weren't all that many right now, and probably wouldn't be for a while. If Audrey needed him, he'd know; the baby monitor mounted on the bassinet allowed them to hear her every cry from their bedroom and see her every move on the little screen that sat on their nightstand.

It was just that being here next to her was… different. Better, somehow so much better, than staring at a slightly grainy picture on a screen. When he was next to her he could distinctly see the way her tiny pink fist would clench and unclench in her sleep, the slight rise and fall of her body as she breathed, the way her eyelids moved ever so slightly as if she were dreaming.

They better have been good dreams. Noah knew he had the rest of his life to chase away the things that bothered her—monsters under the bed, bullies at school, horny boys—but how did you protect a tiny baby if she had bad dreams?

He liked to watch her when she slept. He liked to watch her do _anything_, if he was being honest, but sleep was definitely on the list.

Being away from her too long made him uneasy. He didn't know if that had anything to do with the baby he'd given up when he was sixteen, or if it was just because this little person meant more to him than anything else he'd ever dreamed of having, but it was true.

Watching her, touching her, smelling her(even when the smells weren't the most pleasant) made it feel real when he feared that maybe this was all just a dream, that he was still the punk he'd been in high school and he never got the girl, the house, the job, the absolutely perfect baby.

She _was _perfect. So small, but perfect—he figured she got that from her mother. She'd inherited Rachel's ears and, from the looks of the downy soft brown fuzz, her hair, but his nose. It was too early to tell about the eyes, but he'd bet they turned out to be like his—that mix of green and brown that Rach called hazel and swore she would pay to pass on to their offspring.

He'd never understood her deal about his eyes(they were just _eyes_), but he hoped Audrey got them, too, because there was something about looking at her and seeing pieces of himself there that made him feel like he could do anything.

He would do anything, if she needed it. After living a pretty much selfish existence for seventeen years, and then a slightly less selfish one for eight, he finally knew what it was like to be the guy who would give up everything—his money, his dreams, his life—for his family. Looking at Audrey, he was proud to be that guy, even if it did mean he was kind of a sap.

Because he'd spent so much time watching, he recognized the signs of her beginning to wake up before she made a sound, and was already reaching for her when she started to cry.

That was officially his least favorite sound in the world. It made his heart break a little every time she scrunched up her face and wailed(though whenever she did, he was reminded that she'd gotten Rachel's lungs, as well).

"Hey, beautiful, it's okay," he said softly, his voice soothing, as he leaned over the bassinet to pick her up. "You're the prettiest girl in the world, aren't you? Just don't tell your momma, she might get jealous."

She was wet so he changed her, smoothing on the diaper with flourish and rebuttoning her into the pastel green animal print onesie that his mother had bought them the day they announced that Rachel was pregnant. Audrey continued to cry, dry but still hungry, and he murmured nothing words as he carried her into the bedroom.

Rachel was sitting up in bed, the lamp on beside her, a pillow already in her lap. "I heard you, you know," she said as he gently handed their daughter over to be fed.

Noah looked down at Audrey and shook his head. "Busted. Who knew you'd rat me out?"

"The walls have ears," Rachel laughed quietly, brushing a finger over a pink cheek as Audrey nestled against her and started nursing. "But given the fact that I happen to agree with you, I guess I can't be offended."

Her hair was a little tangled and there were shadows under her eyes, but she was smiling and gazing at Audrey with such undisguised love that he suddenly found it hard to swallow. There was no doubt about it, his wife and daughter were the most gorgeous girls he had ever seen.

He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed beside them and leaned down to press a kiss to Rachel's shoulder. "How bout we call it a tie?"

She let out a quiet, approving murmur. "I think we can both accept that."

Rachel had been with the baby all day and she was exhausted, so when Audrey was full Noah kissed Rach, told her to try to go back to sleep, and took the baby back to the nursery.

She was a little fussy so he flipped off the baby monitor so he wouldn't bother Rachel and walked around the room with Audrey, softly singing to her. They'd both sang to her a lot during the pregnancy and that must have made some sort of impact, because it usually helped to calm her down now.

When she started to rub at her eyes, he knew she was getting tired again, and lowered himself into the glider. She wriggled against him, all petal soft skin and green cotton onesie, before settling in against his chest. He smiled as he inhaled the scent of her skin and baby powder.

He knew that if he tried to put her down right now, she'd cry like the devil. It was his warmth, his humming, his body making the glider rock gently back and forth, that was keeping his baby girl quiet and content.

And maybe it was stupid, but at that moment, that made him feel invincible, like he was some kind of superhero. If running on a few hours' sleep was the price for that feeling, he'd take it.


	17. A Wedding

**A/N: **To be honest, I can't remember much about the original prompt I wrote this for or who posted it(the extent of my crappy memory is scaring me a little as I look back on these drabbles, guys). But in my fuzzy head, what I do remember is short and simple, so that's what I'm going with.

_Wedding._

__Oh, and thanks to everyone who's been nice enough to review/favorite/follow. You guys are awesome! I haven't been writing much(at all) lately, but you're definitely giving me ideas, so we'll see what happens! =)

* * *

Rachel and Noah spent the night before their wedding day apart—her decision, not his. She was pretty sure from the looks he kept giving her that he thought about 99 percent of wedding traditions were for suckers, but every time he sent that particular glare her way she just smiled and did what she wanted. Because he knew her, and knew the hell she was fully capable of raising if things didn't go as she planned, he let her.

It wasn't that she didn't want him to be involved. She did. Actually, she encouraged(demanded) it, and when he cared enough about something to speak up and risk her wrath, she listened.

That was how they'd picked their wedding invitations("You know I love you, babe, but fuck no. No way I'm asking my friends to come to my wedding on paper with gold stars and hearts popping out at them. Go with something simple") and the reception menu("What is this? Rach, I can't even _pronounce _half of what's on this list. I know you want elegant, but I swear to God, if I end up with a snail or a frog or something in my mouth, I will spit that shit out in front of all our guests").

When she thought about it, most of Noah's contributions to the wedding planning had been to rein her in. She really didn't mind—she was honest enough to admit that she probably needed it—but there were some things that she wouldn't allow him to stick his nose into, even if he wanted to.

Like her dress. As Santana and Quinn helped her get dressed in the guest house of her favorite director's stately home, Rachel watched her reflection in the full-length mirror and knew that the dress was perfect. Snow white satin and strapless, it hugged her curves and flared out into a chapel train with just a little lace and crystal beadwork. It made her feel like a princess, and she couldn't wait to see the look on Noah's face when he saw her in it.

She knew that he probably thought it was going to be a train wreck. Sometimes he seemed unable to forget the fashion disaster(as Kurt had put it, many times) she'd been in high school. She had found Noah trying to look into the dress bag one night, and as she pushed it to the back of the closet, he'd said, "Come on, babe, I just want a quick look. It doesn't have bows all over, does it?"

The dress was moved to Santana's loft the next day for safekeeping, along with the sexy white lingerie she'd been hiding under the bed.

Now it was the wedding day, and Noah would finally see it all.

Rachel's cell phone began to vibrate on the dresser to her right, and she made a quick grab for it, her heart lurching.

Santana was faster. She snatched up the glittery device, a wicked smile on her face. "Hoping to hear from someone in particular, Berry?"

"San…"

The pretty brunette shook her head and took a step back, just in case Rachel was desperate enough to make a leap for the phone. "No contact before the wedding, remember? Your rules, I'm just helping you keep them."

Rachel pouted, which would have worked if it were Noah she was aiming it at. Santana, however, was not affected. She flipped open the phone and answered, "You're not allowed to talk to her for another half hour, Puck."

He must have said something snarky, because Santana muttered, "Uh-huh, sure" and rolled her eyes.

Watching, knowing San would never hand over the phone, Rachel made a sad squeak of resignation in her throat—there were butterflies in her stomach like she'd never experienced before any performance, and she was pretty sure that just hearing his voice would put them to rest. If he told her he loved her, and she was certain that he would, she could probably even stop her hands from shaking.

"I told Matt the same thing about you," Santana laughed a second later. "Oh, and FYI, your girl looks fucking amazing, even _with_ the bows." Grinning to herself, she snapped the phone shut.

Rachel frowned. "Remind me again why we're friends."

Santana just laughed and repeated, "Your rules."

"What? You told Matt what about him?" Quinn asked.

"To tie him to a chair and beat some sense into him if he even hinted at cold feet," she replied simply, leaning toward the mirror to examine her makeup. When both women just stared at her, she shrugged. "What? Just making sure. And fine, Puck said it a bit nicer."

Quinn quirked a brow. "Really?"

"He's worried I'll get cold feet?" Rachel asked, her eyes lighting up while her insides melted. It was probably the best thing she could have heard, aside from Puck's own voice. That had to mean that he was as excited about this wedding, about the beginning of their lives together, as she was. Which, to be honest, she'd been more than a little concerned about.

As it turned out, her wedding day was the first day that none of the little details mattered so much. When she was walking down the aisle, one father on either side, she wasn't thinking about how beautiful the flower-draped chuppah was, how lovely the string quartet sounded, how glad she was that she'd gone with a deep blue rather than pink for her wedding party's gowns.

All that really mattered was the gorgeous man waiting for her at the end of that walk, looking delicious enough in his tux that her mind flashed, ever so briefly, to their upcoming honeymoon.

Noah smiled at her, just a smile, and Rachel beamed back, subconsciously speeding up. Just this once, choreography and timing wasn't so important.

When she finally stood next to Noah, he took a long look and full-out grinned. "You look gorgeous, babe," he whispered, his hand grasping hers. "And no bows."

"Actually, Noah, there are." She smiled innocently and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. "You just have to find them."


	18. Need You Now

**A/N: **I wrote this for **katiebeth26**'s prompt "During "Need You Now" Quinn decides that Puckleberry needs to happen now. She goes out of her way, much to Rachel's worry that Quinn is plotting something bad, to make sure that Puckleberry happens."

Hope you guys like it!

* * *

When Rachel and Puck stepped onto the choir room floor, Quinn thought it was going to be another Rachel Berry show-off moment. She expected Celine Dion, or Mariah, maybe Whitney… something with high notes that would display the midget's voice to its best. She did wonder how Rachel had talked Puck into doing a song when they hadn't been given an assignment or anything; as far as Quinn knew, Puck didn't do anything school-related unless he had to.

The slow opening notes were familiar, and Quinn placed them immediately. _Need You Now?_ Not exactly the powerhouse showcase that she'd been waiting for. Also not the kind of macho song Puck would have insisted on performing a few months ago.

But before Rachel even opened her mouth to sing the first lyrics, Quinn noticed something. A look, quiet and intense, as Puck strummed the strings of his guitar. He was staring at the little brunette diva, the tiny beginnings of an unconscious smile playing at his lips. Nothing about that look said that he'd been coerced into doing this.

Rachel didn't seem to notice—she was flicking glances at Finn, and what was new there?—but Quinn certainly did, and it made her shift forward in her seat to watch more closely. She liked Puck, she really did. They'd had a baby together, and while she regretted a lot about that whole situation, she couldn't hate him for it. He'd tried to do the right thing by her. He wasn't the guy for her, obviously, but she didn't begrudge him some happiness. Too bad he was staring with his 'I want you' eyes at a girl who didn't even know he was there except as a tool to make someone else jealous.

_Or… maybe not_. The song shifted into the chorus, Rachel turned her attention back to Puck, and she changed. Looking at Finn, she'd been cold—challenging, resentful, maybe even a little sad. The perfect picture of a dumped schoolgirl.

Looking at Puck, everything was different. She was warm and smiling, almost likeable even. Quinn was tempted to write it off as another performance, but she knew it wasn't that. She'd seen enough(more than enough, actually) of Rachel's over the top 'I must connect with you because we're singing together' looks, and this wasn't one of them. This was genuine. Maybe the most genuine thing she'd ever seen from Rachel.

Puck began his verse, and for a moment Quinn thought he was going to jump on one of the football idiots mid-lyric. He made a quick threatening motion that had a couple of the guys in the front row flinching—she silently laughed, because the assholes deserved it—and she was sure that was the end. There would be a brawl in the middle of the floor, and they'd all be lucky if Puck didn't get hauled back to juvie.

Except Rachel was there. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm—she liked to touch his arms, Quinn realized with a bit of a start—and he was instantly down from whatever ledge he'd been standing on. They looked at each other again, eyes meeting, and both smiled as they continued the performance, leaning toward one another with glances that could only be called flirty.

Quinn was… floored. She'd honestly just seen Rachel Berry calm Puck with a single touch. Puck's temper was legendary; she doubted anyone else could have done that. Not even her, not even when he'd thought that he wanted her, Quinn had to admit. He'd never looked at her the way he was looking at Rachel—like she was precious to him, like he cared about her for no other reason than that he _cared about her_.

Puck and Rachel. As startling as it was as a concept, once she accepted it, it made sense.

She smiled to herself as she watched the rest of the performance—which now, with her new insight, looked very much like a courting ritual played out for them all to see.

Puck really did deserve to find a real girlfriend—someone who wasn't with him to make someone else jealous, or because she was having his baby, or because he was good in bed. And, Quinn's personal beliefs about sex aside, Rachel could really use some of Puck's expertise in the bedroom. It might make her start behaving like an actual human being.

They wanted each other. Now Quinn just had to find a way to make it happen.

~/~

She started slow, because she knew she had to. She and Rachel didn't have the best record with each other—okay, she could barely stand the midget most of the time—so it wasn't like she could just go and tell her that she thought she and Puck would be good together. But Quinn was on a mission, and she wasn't going to give up because it wasn't simple.

She caught Rachel in the bathroom the day after the duet with Puck. She noticed the way that Rachel tensed up a little, like a rabbit who suddenly sensed that a predator was nearby, and tried not to smile at the thought. "Good job on the song yesterday," she said casually, turning on the water to rinse her hands.

Rachel met her eyes in the mirror, looking startled. "Why are you saying something nice to me?"

"Because, you did a good job on the song yesterday," Quinn repeated with a nonchalant shrug. "You and Puck sound good together."

Rachel was still and silent for a long moment, trying to find the trap. Quinn was never nice to her. In fact, she'd talked about punching her quite a few times, and Rachel doubted that the urge had ever really left. But she smiled, cautiously, and replied, "Thank you. Our voices do blend together rather well."

"You look good together, too," the blonde added, pulling her lip gloss out of her bag and applying another coat. She had to look and sound innocent, like it was just a normal comment instead of a deliberate—but well-meaning—set up. "It's strange to be saying this, but the two of you as the face of glee in front of the team might actually help us."

"Um, did you not see the fight that followed our performance?" she asked, her skepticism clear. "I don't think we did any good."

"That's what they want you to think. They're idiots, and they're scared for their precious popularity. They would never _admit_ that your little show appealed to them. But it did. Trust me." She fixed her hair in the mirror and then turned to exit the bathroom, leaving Rachel to her thoughts.

Her Puck-centric, saving-glee-club thoughts. God, this was going to be easy.

~/~

Finn was getting in her way, which also happened to be the way of love. The thing that really irritated Quinn—besides the fact that he was messing with her match-making, the one thing that was an effective distraction from all the crazy going on around her—was that she didn't know _why _he was getting in her way.

She understood that he was hurt by everything that had happened between him, Puck, Rachel, and her. Getting cheated on by two girls was hard; the 'other guy' being his best friend in both cases made it really hard. But it wasn't like he'd been the model citizen, either, so holding on seemed pointless. He didn't seem to want Rachel back, he just didn't want Puck to have her, and that was selfish and mean-spirited. Quinn knew Finn, probably better than anyone else. He wasn't either of those things.

So when she saw Finn watching with fire in his eyes as Puck and Rachel talked by their lockers in the hall, she decided that she'd had enough. "You don't have the right to stop them, you know."

The look of surprise on his face was genuine. "What? Rachel and Puck? Nah, they're not like that."

Quinn laughed. "A blind person can see they're _exactly _like that."

"No. No, they're not. He told me they're not. He's not going there again," Finn stated, but the confidence in his voice was wavering.

"You asked him to leave her alone?" Quinn demanded.

"No. Well, not really. Okay, kind of." The way she looked at him said she was silently judging—he knew that look from when they'd been together—so he burst out defensively, "What? He's supposed to be my best friend, and she was my girlfriend."

"Was," Quinn repeated. "She _was _your girlfriend. You broke up with her."

"_Because _they made out," he exclaimed.

Quinn put her hands on her hips. "Oh, please. You honestly believe that that's the only reason you guys broke up? That there was nothing else wrong in your relationship?" She quirked an eyebrow at him and waited, then shook her head at his silence. "You don't even believe it, Finn. You think anyone else is going to?"

~/~

Quinn didn't see what happened between Finn and Puck after that, but it had to be good. She caught sight of them talking and laughing together again like they used to, and Puck seemed… more free, she supposed. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Like he'd gotten the go-ahead from a formerly disapproving friend?

She hoped so. This match-making stuff was more complicated than it sounded.

~/~

The halftime performance required more effort than usual, because they didn't just have to learn the song and the moves, but they had to learn how to get along with the members of the football team. The fact that they even tried was a miracle, and Quinn reluctantly had to give Beiste and Schue some credit for sticking with it when everything looked like it was about to go up in flames.

Everyone liked the idea of a zombie performance. None of the guys, apparently, realized until later that this required makeup, and they had to be almost forced toward the row of mirrors where they would practice. The glee club and the football team kind of just fell into their places, and Quinn ended up next to Puck, through a little bit of quick maneuvering. A quick glance down the line of seats showed that Rachel had wound up next to Gary Taylor, one of the football players who delighted in slushee-ing her in the morning.

"Here." Quinn picked up a white face paint and shoved it at Puck, who was eying the makeup brushes like he thought they were going to come to life and attack him. "Start with this. I'll be back."

"But… what the fuck 'm I supposed to do with this?" he muttered as she walked away.

She stopped by Rachel's chair and tapped her on the shoulder.

The brunette glanced up, her eyes showing that this—being with one of her tormentors—was clearly a lower level of hell kind of experience for her. "Quinn?"

"Switch seats with me."

"What?"

"Go teach Puck what to do," Quinn said firmly. Did it make her a small person, how much she enjoyed the surprise on Rachel's face at that moment? Oh well, she really was making a sacrifice in the name of her happiness; Gary was an ass. The least she could do was get a little happiness from it.

"Really?" Rachel's eyes lit up with hope before the expression fell, giving way to suspicion. "Why? Did you do something to that makeup? I have sensitive skin, Quinn."

She rolled her eyes as she tugged her out of the chair and gave her a nudge toward Puck. "You'll be fine. Just go."

"But, I… oh, all right." Confused but grateful, Rachel walked down and took the empty chair next to Puck. He was holding a pot of face paint in one hand and a small sponge in the other, and he looked like he was terrified. She couldn't help but giggle.

He dropped the items like they were on fire. "What are you doing?"

"I think the question is, what were you doing?" she chuckled, examining the tools in front of her. She picked up the dropped paint. "I'm here to show you how to transform yourself into a zombie. That is, unless you think you can handle it yourself?"

Puck just shot her a doubting look; this was one time when all the guys weren't ashamed to say they didn't know what the hell to do.

Smiling, she got to work. "I didn't think so."

"Where'd Quinn go?"

"Ouch. Noah, I just got here and you're already making me feel unwelcome." If it had been anyone else, she would have meant the words, but with Noah she could say them with a teasing smile. He was the only one who made her feel welcome, in his own gruff way.

She smeared some of the paint onto his face and began to smooth it out with the little sponge. One hand rested on the opposite cheek to keep him still, and she couldn't help noticing the softness of his skin, or how pretty his eyes were this close up—things she'd admired during their brief romance last year, but had forced herself to forget in the time since. "Don't you trust me to make you look perfectly undead?"

"I thought the whole point of looking undead was to avoid perfect."

She shrugged. "Since I'm the one doing this, you're going to have to deal with both." Because she was a perfectionist, and had stopped apologizing for it.

He squinted at her as she continued to work on his face. "Do you even know what a zombie's supposed to look like?"

"Of course I do! I do watch movies, you know."

"Zombie movies?" He'd pictured her as a strict musicals and romantic comedies kind of girl. Chick flicks.

"Yes. My cinematic tastes are quite varied," she informed him primly as she judged the coloring and shading on his face, trying to determine whether it looked properly decayed. "Are you paying attention, Noah? You're going to have to do this yourself for the halftime show."

He made a mock salute. "Got it, captain. Lather on that stuff with the triangle thing. Paste on the bloody patches."

Rachel laughed, half amused and half exasperated. "I'm starting to see why Quinn abandoned ship."

"Come on, you're glad she went over to Taylor. You wanted to get your hands on me."

She snorted in a very un-Berry kind of way. But it wasn't exactly a denial.

Puck smirked. "Besides, I bet I'll kick his ass at making you a zombie."

She froze. "Excuse me?"

"You know, when it's my turn to make you look all undead."

"I can do my own makeup, Noah, thank you."

"Oh, no. You're fuckin' up my face, I get to fuck up yours. 'S only fair," he stated.

"But—"

"Nope."

"I'm perfectly capable of—"

"I know. I still get to do it," he cut in before smiling. It was an almost laughable image—the charming smile in a frame of decomposing skin with a bloody gash just beginning to form, at her hand, on one cheek. "It's gonna be awesome. Who am I learning from?"

The subtle flattery worked, and when she was done with his face—he looked perfectly undead, thank you very much—she reluctantly handed over the control.

He made her laugh as he worked on her face, repeating what she'd done to him. When he was done, she only added a few touches(it wasn't like he felt comfortable doing the eye makeup for her. People could go blind messing with that shit). She still looked good. Apparently you had to do more than kill and resurrect the girl to make her ugly.

And if she noticed that he hadn't given her much in the way of bloody gashes, because he just couldn't imagine seeing her like that, she didn't comment on it. She just grinned and said he was an excellent student.

From her seat a few chairs down, Quinn smiled smugly to herself.

~/~

The big game came. Quinn missed the first half of it—judging from the score, that might not have been such a bad thing—but thanks to Finn, she was there for halftime and the second half.

She even let a zombie-fied Rachel use her pom-pons to cheer for Puck when he scored. Well, she figured that after all this work trying to fix the girl up, they would have to bury the hatchet. This match-making stuff was hard enough without trying to keep that chip on her shoulder.

McKinley won the game, and the field was flooded with zombie boys and girls screaming their happiness. Everyone was shocked when, caught up in the excitement, zombie Puck lifted zombie Rachel in his arms and kissed her.

Everyone except Quinn, anyway. She grinned and leaned into Sam's hug, and mentally offered herself congratulations on a job well done.


	19. You're Not Friends

**A/N: **Yet another drabble where I can't remember who posted the original prompt. Sigh. Anyway, the prompt was from _Buffy_, and here it is:

**Spike:** The last time I looked in on you two, you were fighting to the death. Now you're back making googly-eyes at each other like nothing happened. Makes me want to heave.  
**Buffy:** I don't know what you're talking about.  
**Spike:** Oh, yeah. You're just friends.  
**Angel:** That's right.  
**Spike:** You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends.

Enjoy!

* * *

Rachel was kind of glad that summer vacation was almost over. Vacation meant no school, which in her world translated to less being terrorized at the hands of the idiots who ran the halls of McKinley, but it also meant no glee club, and that was, quite frankly, not acceptable.

Not that she hadn't worked on performances every week as if glee club _were_ still meeting, but it was slightly less productive without her peers as an audience and Mr. Schue's somewhat misguided but generally helpful comments. She missed performing with the club. And yes, she'd kept in touch with most of her fellow gleeks—some by sheer force of will—but it wasn't the same.

So she was probably one of the only students who was glad to see the summer coming to an end. Soon she'd be back in the choir room fighting for the solos she deserved, helping prepare New Directions to take the top spot at Regionals. Plus, she finally had her best friend back.

Santana had spent the past two months vacationing in London with her family, and the girls had missed each other. Well, Santana wouldn't actually _say_ she missed her, but Rachel knew she did. Why else would she have rushed over to her house to catch up, before she'd even unpacked her things?

Santana was in the middle of telling Rachel about all the hot guys she'd met in Europe(seriously, she'd brought a list so she didn't forget anyone) when the doorbell rang twice. Before either girl could do more than raise an eyebrow, the front door burst open and Puck came in, a stack of papers in his hand. "Hey, I brought your damn sheet music over, so you can stop texting me about how 'integral to strengthening your musical' blah, blah, blah it is."

Rachel jumped up from her seat on the couch and went toward him, grinning as she took the papers. "Thank you. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to demand a ransom."

"Considered it," he admitted with a shrug, "but I figured I'd hold off on that until you're a big star and have some serious cash."

She hit him with her free hand. "Very funny."

"Hey, at least I've got a plan."

"A plan that involves holding the instruments of my development hostage for money. Great, now I have something to look forward to."

He smirked, an expression that was somehow smug and fond simultaneously. "You're welcome." It wasn't until then that he noticed Santana sitting on the sofa, watching their interaction with critically assessing eyes. "Hey, you're back."

She gave him a fake smile, still mad at him for the fight that had caused his breakup with Rachel months ago. The last time she'd seen Rachel before stepping foot on that London-bound plane, the tiny girl had been fighting back tears, pretending that she wasn't hurt after a screaming match with Puck had left her single.

Santana could barely remember what the fight was about—probably something stupid—and she didn't really care. Despite whatever people had to say about her, Santana was loyal to the few people she considered real friends. When those two went at it, she'd side with Rachel every time. "Wonderful observation skills, Puck."

"We were just catching up," Rachel told him, still holding on to her music like it was a much-loved stuffed animal. "Would you like to come and sit with us? I made cookies."

He looked sideways at Santana. Hanging with Rachel was one thing, but Lopez was another story. He knew her; she held a grudge like a fucking bulldog with a bone, and she was a hell of a lot meaner when she was in one of her moods. "Think I'll pass. But I'll take some of these." Smiling, he went over to the table and grabbed one of the cookies Rachel had placed on an artful platter. Then another. And then gave in to the urge, and just grabbed a handful, leaving two left on the plate so they could each still have one.

Hey, he was a _gentleman_like that.

Rachel laughed, not at all surprised by his horrible manners.

Santana stared and wondered if she'd been dropped into an alternate reality. Two freaking hours they'd been talking and Rachel hadn't mentioned spending time with their mutual ex, then he waltzed in the front door with her sheet music—which was pretty much like her child—and stole all their cookies? What the hell.

He left with a nod in their general direction, and a strange look at Rachel that the smaller brunette knew meant he'd call her later.

She turned back to Santana, rolling her eyes, and was surprised by the bemused look on her friend's face. "What's wrong?"

"Is there something you need to tell me?"

"About…?"

"About you and the ass who just stole all our cookies."

Rachel shrugged. "It's Noah. He has the manners of a zoo animal. What else is there to explain?"

"Maybe why he was just here with your music? Or here at all?" Santana leaned forward, anticipating gossip. "Are you guys back together?"

"What? No. No, of course not, we've just been hanging out this summer. Why would you ask that?"

"Uh, let's see. The last time I looked in on you two, you were fighting to the death. Now you're back to making googly-eyes at each other like nothing happened." She cocked her head thoughtfully and wrinkled her nose. "Makes me want to heave."

Rachel blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about. There were no googly-eyes."

"Oh, yeah. You're just friends," Santana laughed sarcastically.

"That's right."

Santana stared at her for a minute, wondering if the lying was for her benefit or if Rach had actually managed to convince herself that it was true. "Hun, let me tell you something. You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love 'til it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other 'til it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends."

Rachel was silent for a moment, just staring back at her with eyes that showed she didn't understand—wouldn't let herself understand—what her friend was saying. Finally, she frowned. "Shag? Santana, you were only in England for a few months."

"And now you're avoiding the issue."

"What issue? You know how Noah is—he can be frustrating or sweet, depending on which side of the bed he wakes up on or the position of the moon or... I don't know, whether or not his football team won. Sometimes we get along and sometimes we don't. I don't see why that means we can't be friends—with no intention of doing any 'shagging' together," she added primly.

God, if the girl really believed that, she was living in a fantasy land, but Santana wasn't going to pop that bubble yet. "You can't be friends because there's always going to be something between you and you know it. Forget a knife, you need a freaking _chainsaw_ to cut through your sexual tension." She shook her head. "I thought it would go away. He's Puck. He's a manwhore. Usually he plows through one girl and moves on to the next one."

As she settled back down onto the couch, Rachel winced. "Lovely, Santana."

The protest was waved away with a dismissive hand. "He did it with me," she pointed out, blunt as ever. It didn't hurt her, what had happened between her and Puck, so she didn't need to pretty it up. "Which is why we can be friends, when he's not being an ass to you. But with you two, it's different. You guys love each other."

"We did, San, but—"

"There's still something there," she interrupted firmly, "and I don't think it's going away."

Rachel let out a breath, shocked. Santana was being serious. She really thought that she and Noah were still in love. But that was ridiculous; they'd ended any romantic entanglements at the end of the school year, and after a few weeks of avoiding him because it hurt too damn much to see and accept that life went on without him loving her, they'd slowly become friends.

Sure, maybe it was strange that they'd chosen each other to hang out with, but Santana was gone and Finn had been distracted since he started dating Brittany. So when they'd run into each other at the grocery store and were both obviously bored, it seemed like the natural thing to do. Nothing about it had been romantic or sexual, they just liked being around each other, though when he acted like an idiot she did wonder _why_ she enjoyed his company.

"I'm sorry, but I think you're wrong," Rachel said quietly. "We're friends, Santana. Just friends."

Santana sighed, certain deep inside her that Rachel was wrong. She knew Puck as few people did, partially because they were so alike sometimes that it was scary. The way he'd looked at her a minute ago, like she _meant_ something… she'd never seen him look at anyone but Rach that way. He wouldn't stick around her after all they'd been through together if there weren't still feelings there. But if Rachel wasn't ready to admit it to herself, then fine. She wouldn't push.

Because sooner or later, those feelings were gonna come out, whether she liked it or not. "Okay, fine. Guess I misread it," she said lightly. "Now where was I? Oh yeah. Jonathan…"

* * *

"Noah, are we friends?"

That was how she answered the phone that night when he called her. Even as she said the words, she knew they sounded stupid, but she couldn't help herself. The question had been rolling around in her head since Santana had said that they could never be friends that afternoon. It was important, and it wouldn't leave her alone.

She didn't have a lot of friends. She knew that(the whole school knew that). But Noah wasn't her boyfriend anymore, that was devastatingly clear, so the only thing left was for him to be her friend. She _needed_ him to be her friend.

Because the possibility of Noah being her nothing was too painful to think about.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Are we friends?" she repeated urgently, closing the door to her bedroom so her fathers wouldn't hear the conversation—or her tears, if things went that way.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Is this a trick question? Because if you're looking for someone to drag to a musical or something, try Kurt—"

"No. No, Noah, it's not a trick question. I don't want anything, except to know if we're friends."

"Uh, yeah, sure, we're friends."

She let out a short, sarcastic laugh to hide her disappointment. "That was convincing."

"Fuck, Rach. Yes, we're friends. Happy? I'd die without you in my life, because every guy needs some beautiful nagging chick to fuck with his mind when things seem to be goin' all right, otherwise he's not complete."

His tone was annoyed, maybe even angry, but she ignored that. She even stopped pacing the small length of her room as she asked hopefully, "Beautiful?"

He sighed into the phone, and she could practically see him rolling his eyes—or pretending to strangle her with his hands, but she preferred to think it was just the first one. "Don't fish for compliments, Berry."

"I'm not."

"Course you are. I've already told you you're beautiful."

"That was before," she pointed out softly. "You haven't said it since… you know." The fight, the break-up.

Another sigh, this one a bit less annoyed. "That shit doesn't change just 'cause we did."

"Thank you." Hearing him say that made her feel like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She couldn't help but smile. "And every girl needs some handsome guy to screw up all her logical thinking, otherwise she's not complete. You're that guy for me." _Always will be. Maybe Santana was right_.

"Handsome? Really?" he asked doubtfully.

She laughed. "Lovely?"

"Rach," he groaned. They both knew he hated(loved, but pretended to hate) when she called him lovely.

"Pretty?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"No! Wait, I found a description we can both agree on."

He snorted, thinking _this oughtta be good_. "I'm waiting."

She lay down on her bed, biting her lip and tightening her grip on the phone. "Gorgeous and badass?"

His surprised laugh made her feel warm. "Yeah. Gorgeous and badass I can deal with. Plus, you actually just said 'badass,' so…"

"I do curse occasionally!" Rachel laughed. "So I guess we must be friends, right?"

There was another little pause before he let out a low breath. "We might be a little more than friends, Berry."

Silently, she grinned and wondered how it was that Santana had known before her what she really wanted.


	20. Bones

**A/N: **This was written for **pristhebest**'s _Bones _prompt:

Booth: I'm a gambler. [Brennan gives him a quizzical look] I believe in giving this a chance. Look, I wanna give this a shot.  
Brennan: You mean us? [Booth nods] No, it will ruin our friendship -  
Booth: Don't do that, that is no reason - [he kisses her, but after a moment she pushes him away]  
Brennan: [close to tears] No! No!  
Booth: [desperately] Why? Why?

Hope you guys like it!

* * *

When it happened, it was an accident. It was. Rachel wasn't sure how one accidentally kissed her friend in his living room while his sister was doing her homework in the next room, but she knew that it sometimes happened, okay? It just… did.

There was a moment, as they separated and looked at each other with wide, surprised eyes, when she thought it might happen again on purpose(because she was fairly certain that, as wonderful as Puck's kisses had been during that brief time they were dating, this had felt better, and the thought of repeating the feeling wasn't at all bad). But then Sarah had rushed into the room with a school book and a pout, and Rachel had jumped up to help his little sister tackle math.

The moment, if there had really been a moment, had been lost, and they were back to being friends.

Except they weren't, not really. Understanding people was not Rachel's strong point, but she did realize that kissing Puck again changed things. She could see it sometimes when he looked at her like he was trying to figure out a puzzle, or when they touched doing basic things like handing over a borrowed pen or sheet music.

She could _feel_ it in the blush that colored her cheeks when she had to glance away, or quickly pull back her hand and try, rather fumblingly, to change the subject.

It scared her. Not _him_—strange, wasn't it, how he'd once slushied her daily and yet the thought of being afraid of him was actually laughable now?—but how things were changing, how they could change if one of them stepped a toe out of line. They were friends, and she depended on him to be her friend more than she'd ever allowed herself to depend on anyone.

So she made sure none of her toes crept toward that thin black line of death. If she ignored the feelings and acted like nothing had happened, then nothing needed to change. So what if they were a little flirtier with each other now? So what if something in her stomach flipped or fluttered when he smiled at her?

She was an expert at acting, so much that she very nearly had herself convinced. That was probably why Puck's shift from toeing the line with her to stepping boldly across it hit her so hard.

Maybe she should have seen it coming, but she didn't. They watched a movie together, and yes, Puck was acting a little strangely—fidgeting more than usual—but she'd thought that was because it was sort of a "chick flick" that she'd earned by sitting through all the Terminator movies for him.

Then it was over, and he was looking at her again, with the eyes that made her stomach feel all jittery.

How did he manage to make her feel self-conscious and pretty all at once with just a stupid glance? "What?" she asked quietly.

"Aren't you tired of this?"

"Tired of… what?"

"Pretending that nothing happened." He shrugged his shoulders, and the movement seemed nonchalant, except for the tension that she could see even now in his frame. "Just wondering, 'cause I'm getting fucking sick of it."

"I… I'm not sure what you're talking about."

He shot her a look, a little disappointed. "Don't give me that. We've been avoiding this issue since we kissed, and it's getting weird. Everyone else is talking about it, don't you think we should?"

Rachel's eyes widened. "Everyone else knows?"

"Not unless you told them, but they know something's up. Shit, even Brittany knows something's up, and Santana actually had to remind her how to walk yesterday."

"Oh." She bit her lip, thinking back to all the sidelong looks she'd ignored right along with Puck's touches and her stomach's acrobatics. Oh, God. Everyone _had _been talking about them. "Okay, maybe we should talk about it."

"Okay." He paused to give her a chance to start, then took a breath when she didn't. "I'm a gambler. I believe in giving this a chance." There was absolutely nothing on her face. Was she even listening? "Look, I want to give this a shot."

"You mean us?" She couldn't help the nerves beginning to edge into her voice, or the way they shot straight up to panic when he nodded. "No, it will ruin our friendship—"

He shook his head and held up a hand to cut her off. "Don't do that. That is no reason…" He couldn't find the words, and the helplessness in that was choking his throat so he couldn't say them anyway, so he did the only other thing he could think to do. He kissed her.

And felt the brief exultation—not triumph, like it would be with any other girl who tried to deny him, but just _happiness_—when she kissed him back before pushing hard at his chest.

"No. No!"

"Why? _Why_?"

There was something—in his voice, in his eyes, in _him_—that made her want to climb into his arms and just let it happen. It wouldn't be hard, she knew that. Being with Noah would defy all logic of high school norms, but she was pretty sure it would come as naturally to her as singing.

The problem was, giving in was easy. What to do after that was the hard part, and she simply couldn't do it.

"Because, Noah, when it comes to relationships I'm cursed. Dating Jesse ended in disaster, and then the whole thing with Finn… obviously I didn't handle that the way that I should have. And everyone at school hates me. Most of them don't even try to hide it—"

"That shit's got nothing to do with us, Rachel, and you know it."

"No. What I know is that as soon as I make a concentrated effort to try to make any sort of lasting connection with a person, it blows up in my face. I don't want to do that with you. I don't want to lose you," she said quietly. "What we have now, this friendship that sort of just appeared between us, is good. I need it too much to risk ruining it for… what, Noah? A week of being together? Maybe two?"

"Rach, it wouldn't be like last time…"

"You can't promise me that, Noah," she pointed out with a sad half smile. "And you might be a gambler, but I'm not. I analyze situations, I plan, perhaps even to the point of over-thinking—"

"I know all that, and I'm not holding it against you. Accepting your crazy should count for something, right?" he asked, his tone somewhere between teasing and desperation. "Look, I know you usually think the crap out of everything, but this is us. It's _us._ I don't care what the fuck we're up against, I'd put money on us winning."

"Singing, maybe," she agreed helplessly, "but a relationship? What makes you think it would even work? You're so… _you_, and I'm so…"

"You?" he suggested.

She blew out an annoyed breath. "I was going to say high-maintenance. Or difficult. Or prone to having relationships that end in a fiery crash and leave everyone involved missing pieces."

"Hey, that last one sounds interesting."

His attempt at a joke earned him a bland glare, but the corners of her lips quirked up just a little. "I'm being serious."

"I know. So am I. Mostly. I want to try this, Rachel, I mean that."

Looking at him, she'd never felt more torn in two directions. So much of her wanted exactly the same thing, to try more than friendship and see where it took them. Tears filled her eyes when she realized that the longing just wasn't quite big enough to outweigh the fear. "I can't. I'm sorry, Noah, but I just can't."

"Don't say can't when you mean won't, Rach. Don't."

"No! Noah, I _can't_. Because those other relationships might have torn off little parts of me, but you… I'd love you," she stated, her voice rising as the words spilled unheeded from her lips. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop; the idea of him walking out of her house thinking that she didn't want him was too much to bear. "I would, I'd fall in love with you, and I don't think that either of us could do anything to stop it. And if something happened and we didn't work out—and both of our track records would suggest that something _would _happen—I'd break. You'd break me, Noah, and there'd be no one left to pick up the pieces."

"I'm not gonna break you. That's not gonna happen," he rushed to tell her. "I mess shit up, I know that. But you're the first person I care enough about to want _not _to break, Rachel."

She bit her lip and tried to make the tears rolling down her cheeks go back into her eyes, because crying wasn't helping anything, and all she could think was, _If you don't break me, I'll probably break you. _And she refused to let either happen. "I wish I were brave enough to take the risk," she whispered. _I wish there were no risks, that I could just know no one would get hurt._

He watched her carefully, as if trying to see if she really meant it, and shook his head. "Somewhere inside of you is a badass, Rachel Berry. I've seen her. She'd take this bet."

She didn't say anything to that. Honestly, there was nothing she could say. So instead she asked, with her heart in her throat, "Can we still be friends?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he forced a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

But she knew, without either of them saying another word, that things were going to change.


	21. Alone Without You

**A/N:** Once again, I can't remember the details about the original prompt aside from the very basics:

_Alone without you._

This one was on the short side, but it's for everyone who took the time to tell me they didn't like this drabble collection sitting around with the most recent chapter being a sad one. Thanks for letting me know. =)

* * *

He isn't going to make it.

That's the only thought running through Rachel's head as she paces in her dressing room. She should be excited; it's her first night on Broadway, and she twenty minutes away from going out on stage and playing a role that she's dreamed of playing since she was a little girl. She should be _thrilled._

Instead, she feels about two inches tall. She's almost certain that she's never been so terrified, or felt so alone.

He isn't going to make it. He promised her he would, but it won't be the first time he breaks a promise. Not that she blames Noah this time; his meeting with the record label was supposed to end early enough that he had hours to get home, change, and make it to the theatre. It isn't his fault that the company bigwigs kept him waiting, or needed more from this appointment than he'd anticipated. She can't begrudge him anything that leads to the realization of his dream, not when she's so very close to hers.

But she wishes so much that she could see his face before she walks out into those bright lights, if only just to know that he's here with her.

She has support, she knows that. Her fathers have been around all day but now they're in their seats, right next to Santana, Brittany, Finn, and Kurt. Her dressing room looks like a veritable garden thanks to the bouquets sent by her family and friends. The other actors in the show drop by to chat briefly, wish her well, giggle about how excited they are.

Somehow, it's not the same. She's surrounded by love and all she can think about is the man who's missing.

It's five minutes to show time and she's on her way to the stage, trying to keep her head up and smile when she's shaking inside, when she hears his voice. It's loud and annoyed and tinged with the promise of violence, and she's never been so happy to hear another human being before.

She follows the voice and sees Noah at one of the side doors, arguing with a security guard. "I forgot my fucking pass, okay? Where's Mark? He knows I'm cool to get back here… Dude, if you don't get out of my way and let me through, I'll move you myself. I need to see my girl."

She smiles as she approaches them. It's like a miracle, the way her tension drains away at the sight of him. "Cutting it a little close, aren't you, Noah?"

The security guard turns, and he's a man she's never seen at practice before. No wonder Noah's having problems getting through. "You know this guy?"

Noah doesn't even bother to point out that he's been saying exactly that. He just steps around the distracted guard, his eyes focused on her. "I made it, didn't I?"

"Barely." She sighs when he tugs her into his arms, fitting her curves seamlessly against the planes of his body. This is more comforting than tea, than whiskey, than chocolate, than any good review could ever be. She wishes she could kiss him, but it might ruin her makeup and there isn't time to fix it. As it is, he's probably messing up her hair. "I'm glad you're here."

"Wouldn't miss it, babe." He pulls back to look into her face, and she's embarrassed to realize that she's so relieved there are tears in her eyes. Noah frowns. "Hey. What's with the waterworks?"

"I was afraid you weren't going to make it, and I… need you to be here."

"Nervous?"

She lifts her head a bit. "Of course not. I just wanted my support system."

"Babe, you've got all sorts of support. There's a whole fucking room full of people ready to cheer you on out there. Support's not an issue."

"I know. It's just…" She glances away. "Even if there's a thousand people in this place, I still feel alone without you."

She thinks he might laugh, might not get it, but he surprises her. There's understanding in his eyes when he leans down to kiss her, and she needs it so much she doesn't even protest on her makeup's behalf. "I get it. But you're not alone, remember? You're never gonna have to face anything alone again."

He links their hands together, and her fingers automatically rub against the smooth platinum of his wedding band. Her rings are safely locked away in her dressing room until the show is over, and she thinks that maybe her naked finger makes her as twitchy as anything else. "Thank you for being here. Now go to your seat."

He squeezes her hand. "You're gonna blow us all away. Love you, Rach."

"Love you, too, Noah."

He winks at her before he walks out of sight, and Rachel squares her shoulders as she hears one of the stage managers calling her name. She's ready now.


End file.
